


Best Thing

by bourbonrain



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Enemies to Lovers, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-03
Updated: 2017-10-15
Packaged: 2018-12-10 18:08:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 27,108
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11697060
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bourbonrain/pseuds/bourbonrain
Summary: A sexual encounter between Pansy Parkinson and Ron Weasley leaves her hating him more than ever.  Years later, he turns up at her door for more.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> #rarepairs4lyfe

* * *

Their first time together is nothing to write home about.

Drunkenness and curiosity lead to a sloppy snog, with floo powder still on their robes. He wastes no time in bending her over the edge of his bed after pulling her into his bedroom. She rests one cheek on the crumpled sheets and looks up back at him as he flips her skirt up.

He appraises her ass, groping her well-formed rear greedily. With little reservation, he unbuckles and unzips to free himself with one hand and shifts her thong to the side with his other. He feels hot and hard and large at her entrance. The initial penetration hurts. She reaches back to still him, and in response, he leans forward, pinning her arms beside her head. She whimpers, but he interprets the noise to be a cry of pleasure. He pushes himself deep inside her, breathing hard and heavy against her ear with each thrust.

It feels impersonal, which is usually what she wants, but the fact that this is _him_ of all people, makes it feel hateful, and well, very personal.

She waits for it to be over, watching the freckles on his forearm ripple over the underlying muscle as he ruts above her. Eventually, after a few minutes, it begins to feel good and she moans encouragingly. He mutters something about her being a slag with a dripping cunt before he comes with a long grunt.

The pulsing of his dick as he ejaculates is almost enough to make her come, but she doesn't quite get there. She wants him to play with her clit to help her along, but he pulls out instead and tucks himself back into his pants.

She adjusts her thong back over her crotch. She feels wet and uncomfortable and unsatisfied. She stands, letting her skirt to fall back into place.

"Seamus was right. You do have a lovely little quim." He's lying on his back now, grinning at her, with that after-sex glaze over his eyes.

Pansy is annoyed that the merits of her vagina are being discussed among Gryffindors, but she doesn't let it show. "Glad you approve, Weasley." She straightens her hair in the full-length mirror.

"Probably better if we don't tell anyone about this, yeah?"

Her eyes narrow momentarily in annoyance, but she knows he's right. "Like I want anyone to know I've shagged you, Weasley." She wants it to sound nonchalant, but it comes out with more spite than she wanted to feel.

Less than ten minutes after arriving, she's leaving his flat for her own. Fuck curiosity, she thinks.

* * *

According to the tabloids, he's back with Granger by the following weekend, another make-up-break-up cycle completed. He ignores her when they pass each other on the street and she does the same.

She doesn't tell anyone about that night, not even Millicent or Daphne, mostly out of pride. How could she admit to being barely a blip on his radar, like some hole to be used and then tossed aside by Ronald fucking Weasley. And anyway, she tells herself, he's nothing but a blip on hers.

Life goes on.

* * *

In the four years since Hogwarts, she's spent most of her time trying to save her father's soul from dementors, as any honorable pureblood daughter would. It turns out that there are things money can't buy. Not even a utility closet shag with the Seamus Finnegan, the prosecuting attorney who had taken over her father's case, did any good. She's secretly relieved when an execution date is set. At least his suffering, and her own, would end.

As far as her mother, Dahlia Parkinson, was concerned, her father had long ceased to exist. As did Pansy for that matter. Early onset dementia, caused by repeated Cruciatus after all of Cygnus Parkinson's "failed missions."

So, she splits her time between visits to Azkaban and St. Mungo's. This doesn't mean she doesn't have time for fun. She parties nightly with Millicent and Daphne, occasionally joined by Blaise, Draco, and Theo. They portkey around the world – Parisian terraces, Tokyo nightclubs, New York city rooftop bars, weekend escapes at the Greengrass castle in Ireland, the Zabini villa in Italy, the Malfoys' various estates in France.

She experiences occasional flings, which always start sweet and make her feel giddy in that stupid girly way. The ends always hurt more than she's willing to admit. She hates hoping that some bloke might look past her family's past for reasons other than to take advantage of the overflowing vaults of galleons at her disposal. So for the most part, she prefers relationships that last a few hours. Why seek disappointment, she reasons, when debauchery and no-strings orgasms feel so much better.

* * *

The next time they have a conversation, it's five years later. And they have much more than just words.

At 27, Pansy Parkinson thinks she's finally reached adulthood. Maybe. It's four in the morning and she's just come home alone after a night of way too many shots. Daphne had thrown a party to celebrate Pansy's graduation from St. Mungo's healer training program. She figured she would get licensed officially, since she had already spent half her twenties at St. Mungo's during her mother's last few years of life. No one had ever really expected much of Pansy's intellect back at Hogwarts, so it feels good to prove everyone wrong.

"In your face, Draco," she gloats outloud, admiring her newly framed diploma.

She hears someone knocking. She thinks it's probably Marcus Flint. They have a habit of drunkenly ending up in each other's beds.

Her eyes widen when she goes to greet him. It's definitely not Marcus.

After years without acknowledging her existence, Ron Weasley has turned up on her doorstep.

She manages to point her wand at him, but he disarms her without a word. Pansy curses herself for her slowed reflexes. Through the haze of her drunkenness, she knows she should be scared to be wandless and alone with a man nearly twice her size.

"What the fuck are you doing here?" She tries to sound brave and stoic, but she can hear the quake in her voice.

"I've... erm.. been thinking about you," he says. He looks like he means it, but she's skeptical since this is the first time they've made eye contact in years.

"Right." She glares at him. "How did you get past the warded gates?"

"I'm a professional Charms consultant, Parkinson. I specialize in wards."

"Ah, and here I was, thinking your only purpose in the golden trio was comic relief."

It's the wrong thing to say. Or maybe the right thing. Maybe she wants him to stride angrily towards her. Suddenly, she's more curious than scared, and fuck it, she's horny. So she lets him get close and yank her against his chest. His hands and face are cold, like he's been walking outside, and his mouth tastes like fire whiskey as he scrapes his teeth against her lips.

Despite her inebriated state, she feels every ridge of him inside her as he takes her hard and deep against the wall. And bent over the arm of a settee. Then spread-eagled at the edge of the Parkinsons' long, elegant dining table. There, he pulls out and steps back, like he's appraising her. She appraises him back. Somehow, he's undressed and goddammit, he all muscles and freckles and a big, beautiful erection. She wants him in her mouth and starts to wriggle off the table, but he places his hands back on her thighs to hold her in place.

"I want to look at you," he says. She looks down at herself and realizes that she's still wearing the tight, sparkly dress she had donned so many hours ago, except it's now bunched around her waist. Holding his eyes with her own, she pulls it off in a single motion and lays back.

"I want you inside me," she whispers.

He shakes his head. "Not yet, Parkinson. I want to taste you this time."

Then, his mouth is hot on her sex. He tongues and sucks her clit as his fingers find and pulse against _that_ spot inside her until she's literally splashing wetness onto his face and arms and begging him to stop.

"Shit." She tries to catch her breath. "Shit, Weasley. Where did you learn to do that?"

"Shh, fuck now, talk later."

He's pushing his manhood inside her again, and it's too much, but she still wants more.

"You're exactly what I needed tonight, Pansy" he murmurs against her ear.

Pansy stares up at the ceiling. She hates that her heart drops in response to his words. Pansy, the slag, at his service again, she thinks bitterly. But then he thrusts extra deep, and all she can think about is pleasure. "Shut up," she gasps. "Just fuck me."

She feels light-headed and unsteady on her feet after it's over. He collapses into one of the dining room chairs, and briefly, Pansy thinks about how horrified her mother would be to know that a Weasley's balls and arse were rubbing against her priceless, antique upholstery.

"I need some water," she says, after summoning her wand and then a robe for herself, and his boxers for him. "You coming?"

Out of the corner of her eyes, she watches him scramble to pull on his underwear before following her. She finds two glasses and Aguamentis them both full.

"I'm going to bed," she says, after she hands him one.

"Alone?" He's grinning again, just like their first time all those years ago, like he fucking won something.

She watches his throat as he drinks. Beautiful, she thinks.

"I think I've been more than hospitable tonight, don't you think? After you broke onto my property?"

"Yeah, erm, sorry about that. I honestly didn't think it would let me through…"

"You disarmed my wards!"

"If you could call them that… Merlin, you may as well have been leaving your front door wide open-"

"So, I was basically asking for it then?" She's sneering now, but she can't help it. This is still Ronald Weasley after all. He's always had a penchant for making her feel like shit. Particularly after being inside of her.

"That's not what I said. For Merlin's sake, Parkinson, are you always such a bitch after sex?"

"I'm the bitch?" She hates the screech in her voice, but he deserves it. He reaches for her, but she swats his hand away. "Fuck you, asshole. You can show yourself out before I call the aurors."

She slams her water glass down on the counter and storms out of the kitchen.

She can hear his long strides following her. She considers stunning him, but tears are forming and she doesn't trust her voice to not quaver.

"Wait! Parkinson, please. Don't run off this time. I've waited years to get you alone again."

They're outside her bedroom now. She spins around and thrusts her wand into his chest. "Bullshit, Weasley. Guys like you are the worst – "

"Guys like me? What are you talking about? I –"

"Yeah, like you. Yeah, sure, to everyone else, to the Hermione Grangers of the world, you're the good guy, the funny friend-turned-devoted boyfriend –"

"Well, I think Hermione would disagree –"

"But to the slags of the world, you'll say what you need to get into their.. _my_ knickers in private, but in public, you can't even give a friendly nod –"

"Oh, Pansy…"

"Stop!" Her words are half-sobs now. "Stop looking at me like that. I don't want your fucking pity. I know I've been with a lot of men, but at least, I don't go out of my way to make them feel like shit in the afters –"

"I never meant-"

He reaches for her, but she jabs him harder in the chest with the wand to keep him at bay. He's still shirtless and the wood leaves red marks on his skin. He winces in pain. Good.

"I think you should leave."

"I think we should talk."

"What is there to say?"

"Pansy, please, put your wand down. Let's be reasonable…"

"I don't think I'm being unreasonable _._ You broke onto my grounds and now I want you to go."

"You're leaving out that we just had the most incredible sex. Come on… tell me you don't want to do that again."

She steps back from him and opens her bedroom door. It's nearly six am now, and the view of the sun rising is prominent on her east-facing balcony. Even though she's still drunk enough to not feel her face, she walks over to the sitting area and pours herself another dash of fire whiskey.

He follows her in, awkwardly. In the mirror, she catches him looking tousled and cold and if she didn't hate him, a little adorable. "I know," she begins, before downing her drink, "That I'm a brilliant lay, Weasley. And I'm sure that's a large part of my allure for you –"

"Pansy-"

"But you got what you wanted. And yes, you're a terrific lay too. I'm sure Granger loves it, so why don't you go back to giving it to her."

"Pansy, Hermione and I haven't been intimate for years. Since before you and I hooked up that first time – "

"I don't like being lied to."

"I'm _not_ lying."

"I-"

"And I'm not the only one who wanted to keep things between us. And I'm not the one who ducks into alleys or apparates away whenever she sees me coming. You act like you can't _stand_ the sight of me –"

"That's because I can't." For emphasis, Pansy throws her glass at his head. He ducks and it breaks against her armoire.

"Merlin, what is wrong with you, witch?" He's yelling now and his face is reddening in anger. "Why did you let me fuck you then? Are you really that big of a slag that you'll just give it to anybody who bends you over?"

"How dare you?" she seethes. "Get the fuck out of my house!"

"No! Not until you – "

"Until I what? Fuck you again? Because I'm such a fucking slut?"

He's pushed her onto the bed before she registers what's happening. She struggles against him and she's crying for real now, deep, messy, furious sobs as she throws crazed fists at his face. He pins her down easily, and she turns her head to the side, trying to get her tears under control. His grip on her wrists eases and then he's holding her like… like he _cares_ , stroking her hair, and then her back. She doesn't remember the last time she's been held like this. She knows she should pull away, but he's so warm and gentle and solid. Just a few more seconds…

And that's how she accidentally falls asleep in Ronald Weasley's arms.

* * *

_To be continued..._

**Author's Note:** I mostly wrote this because I love the Pansy/Ron pairing, and there isn't enough of it out there. I have some ideas of where I'm going to take this story, but it's not set it stone, so I'd love any feedback if you might have :)


	2. Chapter 2

* * *

It's always a relief to wake up in her own bed after a hazy night. She's wearing a robe and lying in the fetal position on top of her covers. Her mouth tastes like whiskey-tinged cotton. She's afraid to move, for fear of discovering a limb missing.

"Accio," she mumbles weakly. To her relief, her wand comes flying into her grip.

Alive. Check.

All limbs present. Check.

Wand. Check.

Not bad.

Pansy shuts her eyes again. Merlin, her head hurts. Mid-afternoon light is blasting into her bedroom, siphoning sweat from her already dehydrated body.

She waves her wand weakly and manages to close the drapes from one side. She tries again, and the other side moves an inch. "Fuck," she murmurs.

"Get it together, Parkinson." a male voice croaks.

That's when Pansy realizes there's someone else in her bed. She's immediately annoyed. She rarely lets hookups sleep over, the few exceptions being after especially vigorous sessions with Marcus Flint. Merlin, that man could tire her out.

But this isn't Marcus's voice.

Pansy cringes and pulls a pillow over her face. The last thing she remembers is taking another round of shots with Daphne, Millie and Blaise before hitting the dance floor again. Later, she had to find a floo to get home because she was much too drunk to apparate.

There are some other flashes of memory too. Like being shoved up against the wall by someone with lithe muscles and wrapping her legs around his waist. A hot mouth on her throat. Big, strong hands in her hair. Something very hard and satisfying inside of her. Her pussy clenches involuntarily at the thought.

"Oy, Parkinson. Close the fucking drapes!"

Shit. She knows that voice.

Slowly, she pushes the pillow away and looks beside her. Wearing nothing but boxers, which do nothing to hide the impressive tenting of his morning wood, is Ronald Wealsey in all his red-haired, freckled glory.

"Stop staring at my crotch, woman, and close the fucking drapes!" He's scowling at her through half-opened lids, one arm slung over his eyes.

Defiantly, she waves her wand and opens them wider instead. "Shut up, Weasley. Merlin, your voice is annoying."

He slowly eases himself into a sitting position. She admires the tensing of his ridged abdomen. He summons his wand and draws the curtains closed in a single motion, all the while glaring at her.

"You really didn't seem to mind it last night," he counters.

Panic starts to rise through the heaviness of her hangover. Bollocks. Shit. Bollocks. Apparently, she's gone and fucked Weasley again. And it feels just as terrible as five years ago. Worse really, because she can barely remember a thing, which puts her at a distinct disadvantage in whatever _this_ is between them.

"You mean when I had to fake it to get you to stop?" she tries, in her coldest mean girl voice.

He looks confused for a moment, then frowns. "You definitely were not faking anything."

Pansy wants to burrow into her covers and disappear. Her head is throbbing. It's all too much to compute for her to come up with a witty comeback. Thank goodness for magic.

"Accio, two hangover potions!"

He looks surprised when she hands him a vial.

"Oh, go on and take it, asshole," she snipes. "I'm a healer now, so I'm obligated by the Hippocratic oath or something."

"Thanks?"

She feels much better after downing the slimy liquid. She gets out of bed the instant her head clears.

"Alright, Weasley," she says coolly, as she surveys the damage around the room. Is that broken glass?

"Alright, what?" Color has returned to his previously waxen face, and he looks… damn it, he looks amazing. She wishes he'd put some clothes on.

 _Don't_ look at his dick again, Pansy chides herself. Not that she can't see it in her peripheral vision. Merlin, it's huge. She moves her gaze slightly above his head, so it's safely out of her field of sight.

"Alright, congratulations on fucking a woman when she's black-out drunk. Must make you feel like a real man," she snaps. "Now, get out of my house. I have things to do today."

He has the decency to look contrite. "Wait, you really don't remember anything?"

"No, jerk."

"Would you… like to know what happened?"

She catches his gaze as it falls to her chest. She looks down and realizes her robe is wide open. She glowers at him as she yanks it closed and knots the sash firmly around her waist.

He grins at her. "You want to know how you squirted in my face after I made you cum so hard, your legs were shaking?"

Pansy swallows, her nipples hardening at his words. She takes a deep breath to collect herself.

"No, you bastard. I don't want to hear about some perverted little fantasy. I want to know whether anyone we know saw us leave together."

He folds his arms across his chest and looks at her like he's trying to decide something.

"So you admit, it's a fantasy of yours then?" his tone is playful when he finally speaks.

He's teasing her, she realizes. Like this is just some fucking _game_.

"I do like orgasms, yes," she says as snidely as she can. "Not that _you've_ ever given me one."

"'You just admitted you remember nothing."

"I remember five years ago."

He blushes.

Ha! Pansy thinks, as pink spreads down his neck and over his chest. Shit, how is he still hot when he's flushed like a timid school girl? Ugh.

"Well… erm," he begins.

"Well… erm, get the fuck out of my house. Seriously, are you deaf?"

"Selectively." He shrugs, that infuriating grin back on his face.

He rises and moves to the foot of the bed where she's standing with her hands on her hips.

Pansy is tall for a woman, about five feet, eight inches. She prefers guys her height or at most an inch or two taller, and muscular as hell. It gives her an invaluable sense of power to be able to tower over a strong man when she's in heels. One of many reasons why Marcus Flint, five-foot-ten professional quidditch chaser, is exactly her type.

The man before her is much taller than she is, by five or six inches. She feels vulnerable to be alone with him in her bedroom, especially when he's come close enough that she needs to look up to meet his gaze. Her nether regions clench traitorously when his hard-on presses against her abdomen through the silk of her robe.

She mentally tracks where her wand is, in case she needs to stun him, although, if she's honest with herself, nothing he's doing makes her want to stun him at all. He holds her eyes with his, as he gently lays a hand on the small of her back. She has a brief flashback of those long, thick fingers not being gentle at all, pushing vigorously inside of her. Suddenly, she's all too aware that she's not wearing any knickers, and that there's wetness seeping down the insides of her thighs. Merlin, what is _wrong_ with her. Not even Marcus could get her wet this easily.

She's fairly certain she can make him stop if she wants to, and that's what she _should_ do. But for some reason, she lets him pull her closer, his hardness conspicuously sandwiched between them. He lays his other hand on her breast and squeezes it gently while thumbing her hardened nipple.

"Breathe, Parkinson," he whispers against her ear.

She exhales shakily. Shit, has she been holding her breath this entire time? How fucking embarrassing.

Her arms have fallen limply at her side. The reptilian part of her brain wants so badly to reach up and touch him, but that would mean admitting she desires him and she _cannot_ _desire_ this man.

He's done nothing but make her feel bad about herself, ever since he so gleefully spread the whole "pug-nose Pansy" taunt around at Hogwarts. _H_ _e's_ the reason she was secretly insecure about her nose for her entire adolescence. He's also the only sexual experience that she's been really embarrassed about. The only partner who had made her feel slutty in a bad way, and worse, _used_. She knows he's a good man to the world, a war hero, but he's _never_ been good to her. She has more self-respect than to let him have her again.

So, why doesn't she pull away as he intertwines his fingers with hers? She's frozen in place, staring into his darkened blue eyes as he lifts her hand so it's resting on his cock. She hears a sound, and realizes that she's moaned out loud. She waits for him to taunt her for being a slag, but he doesn't look capable of doing so, his face as desperate and impatient as she feels.

He's standing out of the slit of his boxers and all she can think about as she wraps her fingers around his heavy rod is how much she wants him inside of her.

He leans forward so his mouth is against her ear. "Come on, Pansy," he says, his voice thick and strangled with need. "Please…I. _Need. More_."

She closes her eyes. It's easier when she doesn't see his face, to give in and let herself have this. He's just another body after all, she lies to herself. She leans into his chest and gives a small nod, her hand still stroking his cock.

It's apparently all the consent he needs, because the next thing she knows, she's briefly in the air, and then bouncing on the softness of her bed. Her eyes are wide open now, and she can't stop watching as he hovers over her, holding her legs open and holy shit…It's the best, _best_ feeling to be stretched open by him. She bites back the scream she wants to let out, refusing to give him the satisfaction, though her throat is still making involuntary little sounds. Pleasure is wrung out of her nerves with every stroke, and it's all so _intense_ that less than a minute in, her orgasm already feels so very close.

His gaze roves over her body and she feels fucking sexy as he reaches into her robe to palms and sucks her right nipple and then her left, all the while thrusting inside of her with a maddeningly slow rhythm. She's _almost there_ if only he'd give her a little more.

"Told you, you weren't faking anything," he grunts, looking smug.

She glares at him. "Bastard," she bites out. She indignantly moves to push him off of her.

But then he's thrusting harder and faster and all intelligent thought leaves her brain.

"Shit," she gasps. "I _hate_ you."

"No, you don't." She's annoyed that he doesn't sound nearly as out-of-control as she is. Since when does _Weasley_ have more cool than she does?

But none of that matters as he holds her down and pounds into her, reaching parts of her insides that she never even knew existed. Every stroke sends pleasure all the way to her fingertips. When she's about to come, he pushes into her so hard she's sure his pelvis is bruising hers and holds himself there. He looks infuriatingly smarmy as he watches her convulse around him.

"Don't!" she snaps, when the stars eventually clear her vision. It's hard to sound like an ice queen when her pussy can't stop squeezing around him, but Pansy does her best. He's still deep inside of her, looking like he's about to say something stupid. " _Don't_ fucking ruin it, asshole."

He looks down at her, almost affectionately. It makes her heart feel funny, but intellectually, she knows it's just all the orgasm hormones making her an idiot.

"I'll try not to," he says. She hates how amused he sounds.

"Are you going to get off of me now?"

"Nope. That was for you. This is for me." He starts moving again and she's thrown back into sharp waves of gratification with every thrust he gives her. She feels helpless, like jelly beneath him, which is _not_ how Pansy Parkinson operates in bed. Or anywhere, really.

She musters her strength and pushes him sharply off of her. He doesn't fight it, though he looks disappointed to slip out of her.

Pansy twists her lips into her coolest socialite sneer as she pushes him onto his back and mounts him. She covers his mouth with her hand, when he opens it to speak. "I said, don't fucking ruin it, Weasley."

She's so wet that it's easy to slide right onto his rod. Immediately, she knows the change in position was a miscalculation, because he feels even _more_ intense from this angle. Still, she grits her teeth and rides him, trying her hardest to not moan every time she sinks down on him. Her hands are still over his mouth, but her fingers have gone slack, and he's kissing them and licking them, watching her with those hooded bedroom eyes.

She's about to come _again_ , she realizes. He seems to sense this, because he grips her hips and drives into her powerfully from below. And she's jelly again, quivering on top of him like some fucking damsel in distress. Afterwards, she's slumped on top of his chest, the thrill of the orgasm still apparent in her thudding heart.

"That was very greedy, Parkinson," he mocks. "Two for you. None for me?"

"Oh, shut up," she says, without much conviction.

Sitting up slightly, she pulls her robe off her sweaty body. She's pleased when he swallows hard at the sight of her bare breasts and toned torso.

"Fuck, you are so hot," he breathes reverently.

"I know," she says, hiding her smile. Pansy knows exactly how attractive she is, but her vanity loves fuel.

She slides off him, looking down at his thick rod as it's bared, slick with her juices.

He swallows hard again, when she gets on her knees between his legs and lowers her mouth over him. Tasting herself on a man's cock is one of Pansy's biggest sexual turn-ons, and fine, she admits it, Ronald Weasley has the most beautiful, glorious dick she's ever seen. She loses herself in fellating him, licking and sucking and kissing his rod, while massaging his heavy balls. Mentally, she reminds herself to cast about ten contraceptive charms after this, because the last thing she wants is to end up with Weasley spawn.

When she looks up, his head is thrown back and his hands are gripping her bedspread. He moans when she pushes him into the back of her mouth, and the ripple of sound visible on his throat makes her pussy clench over nothing. She misses having him inside of her.

Apparently, he feels the same way, because he gently pulls her off him and up the bed so they're laying side by side. Then, for the first time in her recent memory, he kisses her. It's far better than the messy snog from five years ago. She lets him slip his tongue into her mouth and nibble on her lips, while she carefully caressed his hardness. When he pulls away, his eyes are so dark, she thinks maybe he's possessed by dark magic.

"Turn around," he tells her.

She obeys, getting on her hands and knees.

"You are so _wet_ , Parkinson," he comments as he wicks the head of his cock with her juices.

She moans and pushes back, eager to have him inside of her again. But, when he enters her, she's reminded of being bent over his unmade bed five years ago, passively taking his unkind rutting.

She's much better lubricated this time, but it still hurts. Guess there is such thing as too big, she thinks.

"Wait," she says, as he starts to speed up. "Wait, stop!"

He stills and bends forward so he's covering her back with body. "What's wrong, love?"

It feels wrong to be called "love," by _you_ , she thinks. Instead, she says, "Can you go slow? It hurts a bit." She doesn't like sounding so weak, but it really does _hurt_.

"Of course, love," he says, kissing the nape of her neck.

He slows, pulling out gently and fucking her with only half his length. She's confused by how sweet he's being, but as pleasure clouds her mind again, none of their previous history seems to matter much anymore. All she can perceive is the heady bliss of being filled.

"Does that feel good for you?" he asks.

"Merlin, yesss," she moans. "So good."

"Fuck," he grunts. "Your pussy is squeezing my dick so tightly."

She can _hear_ her wetness each time he enters her.

"You…. you can go…," she struggles to get the words out. "A little deeper if you'd like."

The next thrust sparks so much pleasure, that Pansy wails into the sheets.

He stops again. "Are you okay?"

She whimpers and nods into the bed. "Don't stop, asshole," she replies, trying to hold on to her pride.

"Yes, milady." She can hear the grin in his voice.

"Are you all the way in yet?" she asks haltingly, though her voice is so breathy she's not sure he can understand her.

"Not quite, but close," he grunts. He's fucking her faster now, his hands tighter on her hips. "Can you take more?"

"Yes, yes! Shit… yes, give me all of you!"

It undoubtedly hurts when he bottoms out, but this time, Pansy loves how the pain gives an extra edge to her high. She's _dizzy_ with pleasure. Even without coming, this is more intense than any orgasm she's ever had. Or maybe she's been coming this whole time. She's never been so deeply possessed by a man. All of her higher order thinking is gone, and she's ruled purely by her desire for more of this, more of _him._

"Say my name," he grunts after a particularly hard thrust.

She can hardly process his words through the haze. Is he kidding? She can't fucking remember her own name, not to mention his right now.

"Tell me who's fucking you!"

"I… arghh!" Her vision is starting to darken and she barely registers that he's pulled her up against his chest, so her legs are spread lewdly around his bent knees. His rod is still deeply, satisfyingly buried inside her.

"Tell me."

"We- Weasley," she whimpers, squeezing her kegel muscles, trying to feel more of him from this position. Fuck, all she wants is more. More of his stupidly huge cock. When she squeezes him again, he slaps her tits.

"Stop, it, slut!" he grunts, some control lost in his voice. "No, I want you to say my _first_ name." He's not being sweet anymore, but she doesn't care. All she wants is more of him pounding inside of her. She tries to roll her hips, but he holds them so that she can't move. "Say it!"

"Ron… Ronald…." She grits out. He doesn't move right away, and she thinks she might cry if he doesn't start fucking her again. "Please," she begs. "Ron…. Ron Weasley. Shit what the hell do you want me to say?"

He pushes her forward and she falls clumsily onto her face. To her embarrassment, she lets out a little sob, as he leaves her body with a wet, popping sound. His rod is pointing straight up at the ceiling, and she stares at it like a woman possessed.

"That's right," he says smugly, as he straightens her out so she's lying on her back. "Tell me whose fucking you, Parkinson."

"You know it's you, asshole."

He slips inside her easily from this position. She sighs in relief.

"Yep, it's me," he says, with that smile she hates so much. "I like hearing you say it."

"Fine, fucker," she bites out. "Fucking… Ron… Weasley… Argh!"

He pushes her legs into her chest and hammers into her with his entire length. Her nerves are too wrung out for her to come again, but she grows increasingly addicted to the high that she gets from every stroke. She doesn't want him to stop. Ever.

When he comes, his orgasm is not graceful. His flushed body twitches jerkily, and his moan is gargled into her hair. Still, she revels in the pulsing of his cock, savoring the jetting of his cum before it pools against her inner walls. She holds him, running her fingers lightly against the nape of his neck as he rides out his peak.

He looks down at her after he's recovered. Even soft, he still fills her wonderfully and she greedily wants to keep him there.

It surprises her when he looks concerned. "Fuck, I'm sorry," he says, as he kindly cups her cheek. That's when she realizes that there are tears streaming down her face.

She shakes her head, and swipes them away with the back of her hand. "Don't be."

He looks unsure as he pulls out. His semen and her juices pool beneath her, cold and sticky against her thighs and ass.

"Really, I didn't mean to – "

"Ugh," she sits up impatiently. "I said to not ruin it with your stupid mouth, Weasley."

He tenses.

"Right, I forget how quickly you become a bitch after fucking."

"Ugh," she says again tiredly. For the first time that she can remember, she's too exhausted to come up with a proper comeback.

"Ho, ho! Pansy Parkinson, at a loss for words!" He looks like he's about to high-five himself.

She opens her mouth. "Shut –"

"Yes, alright," he says, good naturedly. "I'll shut up." He lays on his side, facing her and slips his hand back between her legs. She stares down at his pale, freckled fingers, as they gently massage her clit. It's nice, but it's nothing compared to the nerve-wrenching sensation of his cock inside of her. He doesn't seem motivated to make her cum again, instead rubbing her absentmindedly like petting a pygmy puff.

"Actually," he begins.

She opens her mouth to speak, but he pulls his hand from her pussy and presses it over her mouth, smearing her wetness over her chin and lips.

She tries to speak through his hand, but he effectively silences her when he squeezes her jaw. "Goddamn it woman. For once, let someone else talk."

She glares at him, and pushes his hand away. "Fine, what do you have to say for yourself?"

He laughs at this, which irks her enough to dissipate her post-orgasmic haze. He's very good at reminding her how much she hates him.

"Sorry, sorry," he says, still chuckling. "You just look so unlike you right now. I've never seen you without a hair out of place. Not even during dueling or hell, not even during the last battle."

Self-consciously, Pansy reaches up to pat her hair. To her dismay, her typically sleek, straight locks are a tangled mess. She sniffs and folds her hands in her lap, trying to look as poised as she can.

"Well, you don't look so hot yourself," she counters. It's a lie. His clean-shaven face is so boyishly handsome, it makes her hate him all the more. And those washboard abs. Ugh. She hates those too.

"I like it," he admits. "I mean… the way you look now. You're prettier when you don't look perfect. Not that you aren't pretty normally. You're always pretty –"

"You already got the milk, okay?" she snaps, annoyed at his rambling. "You don't need to flatter the cow anymore."

"Are you calling yourself a cow?"

He's always sporting that dumb grin. It makes her want to slap him.

"Ugh, fucking you is _not_ worth having to talk to you after."

He looks hurt, which dammit, makes her feel a little bad. She blames her bleeding heart on the orgasm hormones.

"Anyway," he says, his tone less warm. "Parkinson, I- Hang, on. Come here."

Unexpectedly, he pulls her into his arms so she's resting against his chest. They're both sticky from fucking, but she doesn't mind it. Beneath the scent of stale liquor and sex which covers them both, he smells a bit like grass and … sunshine? Okay, that's definitely the orgasm hormones talking. She moves to pull away, but he holds her tighter.

"Please, I need to say this," he says, insistently. "So, stop squirming, woman, and please don't talk until I'm done, okay?"

She glowers up at him, but keeps her lips shut.

"I…" he begins again. "Shit, I'm not sure how to say this."

She hardens her glare, but then feels self-conscious when he looks down at her flaring nostrils. No, no, she tells herself. She's not an insecure fourteen-year old anymore, and her nose is _fine_ the way it is.

"Merlin, you are gorgeous when you're mad," he says.

"For heaven's sake, get on with it!" she snaps, though she's privately pleased at his compliment.

"Alright… alright. I just, I guess I just wanted to thank you… Oh, stop looking at me like I have three heads. Let me finish. I wanted to thank you for giving me a second chance. Five years ago, you left so quickly. Ah- ah, no, shhhh!" He puts his hand over her mouth again. "Stop, let me finish."

She makes an impatient noise with her throat, but lets him continue.

"That night, I was so excited to get to fuck you that, well," he blushes. She finds his sheepishness kind of adorable, which is another clear sign that his dick has scrambled her brain. "Well, it was not my best performance… I thought maybe you would stay and we'd have another go, but you left so quickly, which… I mean, I was right embarrassed."

He's bright red, from the tips of his ears to his chest. It'd be so easy to make fun of him right now, but she decides against it. Instead, she lays a hand tentatively on his chest.

"That wasn't-" she begins.

"Nuh uh," he interrupts her. "Let me finish…. When I saw you again a few weeks later, I was so embarrassed, I _hid_ from you. I mean, no offense, but you were the meanest girl in school, and not my type at all, but I still always _wanted_ you. I… bollocks." He struggles to find his words. "... I've always _noticed_ you. Maybe it's because someone like you would never want to be with someone like me, you know… a Weasley in hand-me-down robes, so when we bumped into each other a few years ago, and you weren't being a complete bitch, plus Seamus Finnegan… Oy, this is not coming out right. Stop squirming, woman!"

She doesn't care that her nostrils are flaring now. She pulls away and starts to look for her robe. Merlin, he's such an _idiot_ which makes her an even bigger idiot _._ "Finnegan told you I would be an easy lay?" she seethes. "That bastard."

"He _is_ a right bastard," Ron agrees. "Not the best bloke to sleep with, if you ask me. But, Parkinson, wait. Stop, I'm not done. See, I was really glad he was a little loose-lipped –"

"I'm sure you were."

"Stop moving about and listen!" He grabs her wrist before she can rise from the bed. Being this close to him feels _wrong_ now, because it's not fucking anymore. This is a conversation about the real him and the real her, and to her horror, it brings a lump to her throat. Reluctantly, she lets him pull her back against him. She hides her face against his chest so he can't see how much his words affect her.

"I'm glad," he continues. "Because otherwise, I know I wouldn't have had the courage to talk to you. And I'm really glad I talked to you that night. You were so… unlike you. Bollocks, I mean, just.. like different from the you I remember from school. You were really funny and actually nice and you didn't look at me like I was scum. I had been giving Hermione a really hard time about … erm, well, Slytherins, and… I realized I had been wrong. You showed me that. Do you see what I mean?"

"No," she says shortly.

He runs his hands through his hair. "I've never been great with words."

"You don't say."

"After that night, I ignored or hid from you like a proper coward. When I thought better of it, I realized you were avoiding me. And last night…Erm, well, thank you, for giving me a second chance to _redeem_ myself. In bed, I mean. Merlin, being in bed with you fulfills all sorts of wanking fantasies. You have no idea."

Pansy smiles despite herself.

"You alright?" he asks.

She nods again. "About last night," she needs to ask this, though she dreads his answer. "Did anyone see us together?"

He shakes his head. "No, love. No one saw us. Only we know about us. That's what you want, right?"

She nods, relieved, against his chest.

"Then that's how it'll be," he agrees.

His hand is warm against her bare back, and it feels nice to be held like this by him.

"You did like it this time, right?"

She can hear his heart thudding in his chest. When she glances up at him, he looks so fucking sincere, it breaks her heart a little.

"Yes," she assures him, patiently. "I liked it."

He frowns, still looking unsure.

"Oh, for Merlin's sake. You have a huge penis. I'm sure other women have told you. Plus, you seem to know your way around the female body. Let me guess… the whole war hero thing has gotten you laid a lot?"

"Yeah," he admits. "Although, most of knowing my way around comes from girlfriends."

"Like Granger? Swotty bookworms are always the biggest freaks."

He laughs. She likes the sound of it through his chest. "Yeah, all her reading came in handy as usual."

"Anyway, I'm sorry if … there was any misunderstanding, you know? I mean, about before. Hermione and I… we had just broken up and when I saw you at that bar. And… you were exactly what I needed. And for the record, we never got back together after that…"

"Why would I care about you and Granger getting back together?"

"Erm, no reason. Just, you know, in case there was any confusion."

"Right."

"It's proper nice to be with you like this," he says after some silence.

"Naked?"

He laughs again. "Exactly."

He casually cups one of her breasts. Her nipples harden quickly in his palm.

"I love how sensitive you are." His voice is lower now, as he squeezes her other nipple. "So fucking responsive."

Watching his cock harden makes her suddenly very aware of how empty her cunt feels.

She slides one leg up to his chest, so his hardness is pressed against her clit.

"Tell me what you want," he whispers, rocking against her.

"You," she says simply.

He nudges her entrance, stretching her sore pussy open inch by inch.

"I've wanked to a lot of girls," he blurts out, after about a third of him is sheathed by her.

"Umm… okay."

"Erm, I meant to say you were always one of my favorite wanks."

Pansy giggles at his clumsiness. "You're trying to say I'm one of your favorite girls to wank to… out of many, _many_ girls overall?"

He smiles bashfully. "You understand me so well."

"What a strange compliment."

"I'm not done yet."

"I hope not," she says, moving to have him deeper in her pussy.

"You _far_ exceed my imagination, Parkinson."

"Ohhh," she moans as he shifts her onto her back and buries himself fully inside of her.

"Funny thing… I never wanked to you," she says breathily.

"You wound me."

"It's true."

"Not even once?"

"No."

He hikes her legs so her ankles are hitched over his shoulders. "Well, let's change that, shall we?"

She meets his thrusts eagerly, moaning freely this time.

"Merlin, you are so fucking hot," he pants, running his hands over her arse, before tilting her so he's pressing even more deeply into her body.

"Watch," he says.

"What?" she asks confused.

"Watch my cock fuck your pussy."

Her tunnel tightens around him at his words. When she looks down, she can see why he wants to share the view. It's deeply satisfying to some visceral part of her, to watch him possess her like this, to see her wetness on him every time he pulls out.

"Now, tell me how it feels," he demands.

The feeling of his thickness inside her cunt is sublime and surreal. After losing her virginity to Draco Malfoy, Pansy has never again confused orgasm with affection. One is a type of high, and the other is an emotional choice. But as she watches him rock into her so deeply and so forcefully, she feels like she _belongs_ to him, like he's ruining her cunt for anyone else. How does it feel? Like nothing could ever be as good as this. Like the worst sort of mind-fuck.

"Nice," she says, lamely.

"You can do better than that, Parkinson," he growls.

"Fuck…. I don't know. Just … really… nice."

He doesn't seem satisfied with her response, but she doesn't care, because she's coming again and all that matters is how full she feels, stuffed with _him_. He groans against her neck when he comes a few thrusts later.

* * *

She wakes up sometime later, sore and sticky. Somehow, she's wound up under the blankets, alone.

"Good, you're awake!"

She looks up to see Weasley walking into her bedroom, carrying a tray of bread and cheese with two glasses of pumpkin juice. "I hope you don't mind me going through your kitchen. I was famished after the last round."

She sits up, and realizes that she's starving too.

"I don't mind," she says sleepily, still a little disoriented from her nap.

She chugs the pumpkin juice, not caring that he's seeing her in a most unladylike state.

They shower together after they eat. It's so strange that it's this comfortable to be around him. She doesn't mind it so much, especially when he presses her against her shower wall and kneels before her. She comes again to him tonguing her clit and pulsing his fingers deep inside her tender pussy. She spends the rest of the shower trying to catch her breath.

"I should be off," he says, as they towel dry.

"Right."

The silence that follows is tense.

"Parkinson… I…"

"You don't have to promise me anything," she says quickly, as she steps into a slip dress. "I'm not going to be mad if you don't get in touch."

He frowns. "So you don't want me to get in touch?"

She ignores his question. "Your quest to redeem yourself is completed, isn't it?"

"Yes, but –"

"So there."

"For fuck's sake, woman," he says impatiently, as he wraps his towel around his waist. "You don't feel like there's… _something_ between us?"

"You mean … orgasms?"

"Well, yeah."

"Okay, fine, you can let me know if you want to give me more orgasms."

"Why are you being a bitch again?"

"This is just how I am, Weasley."

"I don't believe that."

"You think you _know_ me now that you've fucked me a few more times?"

His face starts to redden. "Obviously, I do," he says hotly. "You're exactly who I thought you were all along. Thanks for being predictable, Parkinson."

She snorts and turns to walk away. "Feel free to show yourself out."

* * *

She gathers her wand and a light jacket, and apparates to the duck pond on her estate. She sits on the bench which overlooks the water, and watches the sun set over rolling hills, just as her mother had intended when she had the seat installed.

Without really knowing why, she starts to cry. Just like five years ago, she's far too mortified to confide in her friends about him. It was painful then, to suffer the indignity of the tryst alone, but showing weakness over it would have certainly been worse.

She curls her knees into her chest, and lets herself have these private tears for a few minutes more. She doesn't understand how she can be so affected by someone she shouldn't give a shit about. It was better when the sex was bad and she had thought he'd just used her. This… this makes her heart ache like she's some idiot who doesn't know better. Pansy Parkinson _knows better_.

Maybe he'll come back, says a tiny voice in the corner of her brain, one she hadn't heard in over a decade. It's the same voice which had made her hope that Draco could one day love her the way she deserved. She hated it then, and she hates it now.

It's just his big cock, she tells herself. Don't lose your head over some guy's dick.

* * *

A few weeks later, she's buried the incident in the back of her consciousness. She's busy with long shifts at St. Mungo's, and writing proposals to start in an official capacity with the hospital's Neuromancy Research Division at Neville Longbottom's encouragement.

 _He_ hasn't owled and she's glad.

The soreness from their fucking had faded after a few days, the bruises from his hands squeezing her hips a week later. After that, it was like he had never been there at all.

It wasn't _that_ good, she thinks. And even if it was, it _doesn't matter_. It just doesn't.

Plus she likes how easy sex is with Marcus. Good ole Flinty with his pureblood inheritance and his quidditch muscles. He's there when she needs him, nonchalant when she blows him off. It's perfect. When they fuck, they always start with her on top, followed by him pounding her from behind, with two of his fingers in her ass. He always makes her come first, and then finishes in her mouth. Perfect.

She's a little surprised when Marcus invites her to his first match with the Chudley Cannons. They don't typically mingle much outside of their on-again, off-again sex life, but she knows Daphne would be keen to go, so she accepts.

It's a mistake.

His bright red hair is the first thing she sees, as she and Daphne walk into the Cannon's team box. He has one arm slung around Hermione Granger and the other around Looney Luna Lovegood. They're laughing about something with Neville and the boy who lived himself, Harry fucking Potter.

Fuck, she doesn't want to deal with this.

Daphne, bless her hippie heart, is actually excited to see their old classmates and walks right up to them, leaving Pansy lingering awkwardly behind at the door. She watches dumbly as they greet her friend warmly. Looney even gives her a hug.

Pansy's about to slink away and floo home, when Daphne gestures to her. She sees it happen in slow motion – all the Gryffindors turning towards her. If seeing her affects him at all, he doesn't show it. He glances at her coldly, like she's nothing to him. Because she _isn't_ anything, she reminds herself.

She schools her face into her best queen bee smile and strides forward. "Ah, it's you lot," she says, pleasantly.

* * *

**END OF CHAPTER 2**

**Author's note: Hello, lovelies! Yes, it's a super long chapter... Sorry? It basically wrote itself and I didn't seem to have any control over the length. I've outlined about 9 or 10 chapters for this story, and it's going to be sooo fun to write! *cackles gleefully***

**Hope you liked reading! Let me know what you think!**

**xoxo,**

**bourbonrain**


	3. Chapter 3

**AN: If you've already read this chapter, I made some changes (I cut the scene with Hermione, because I felt it messed with the overall vibe of the chapter), so you may want to skim through it again so the story line connects better as you move forward. Sorry for any inconvenience!**

* * *

The Chudley Cannon's team box is filled with raucous quidditch fans. Daphne, whose family have always been stalwart Cannon supporters, fits right in.

"Astoria is going to be _so_ jealous!" she squeals, as the Cannons score again. "Thanks so much for bringing me, Pans!"

"Of course, darling. You're the only reason we're here." Pansy says, wrinkling her nose. "You know how I feel about quidditch."

Daphne rolls her eyes. "That you love banging chasers?"

Pansy darts her gaze to the-redhead-who-shall-not-be-named to see if he overheard. To her surprise, he's glaring openly at her. She smirks back at him.

"He's almost not worth it if he expects me to come to _more_ of these," she replies.

"Merlin, could we come to more? Please?" Daphne takes her eyes off the field to make puppy eyes at her friend.

"Just get Theo to bring you," Pansy says, unmoved.

Daphne pouts. "First of all, Theo supports the Wimbourne Wasps. You know it's a source of tension in our relationship. Second of all, of course I can get tickets. But this is so much better! We're in the team's box! And with you, maybe we can get inside the LOCKER ROOMS!"

"Oh yes!" Looney Lovegood pipes up, sidling into their conversation. "Ever since Ginny joined last year, we always go visit her during halftime. You should come with us!"

Daphne looks like she's about to die of happiness.

"Ugh, I'm getting another drink," Pansy says. At least there's an open bar, she thinks, as the entire room erupts into cheers again.

* * *

Pansy orders another firewhisky, her fourth. She'd given up on the game and had parked herself at the bar about an hour ago.

Marcus had given her a jersey, _his_ jersey, to wear to the game. She had tried it on, but it felt odd to have his name in large letters across her back, like she was getting branded or something. She decided to wear an orange and black wrap dress instead, which was a considerable sacrifice considering orange was _not_ her color. She figured Marcus wouldn't mind her foregoing his jersey once he realized she wasn't wearing any underwear.

She squeezes her thighs together uncomfortably, regretting her decision. She had wanted to look her best the next time she saw _him_ again, not like a pumpkin tied with a black sash. She's also all too aware that he's been giving her heated glares whenever he thinks she isn't looking. But she can't seem to stop looking. Fuck, why is she getting turned on? He looks even worse in orange than she does.

"You look like you're having fun."

Pansy looks up and sees that Neville has approached her, an amused look on his face.

"I'm starting to, now that I have more of these in me," she replies, holding up her firewhisky. She's thankful that Neville sits down beside her, so she has at least one person to talk to.

Daphne, that traitor, is still engrossed in conversation with Looney Lovegood, leaving Pansy to fend for herself in a room full of screaming Cannon enthusiasts and her least favorite Gryffindors. She frowns at the two blondes as they chat animatedly like old friends.

Some time ago, Potter had given her a tentative smile and handed her a butterbeer, as if to say, no worries about trying to turn me over to the Dark Lord ten years ago. All is forgiven. Let's watch quidditch! She had given him a tight smile back and thanked him politely. Who is she to refuse the benevolence of the holy Boy Who Lived?

Granger had said Hello too. Seeing her made Pansy's stomach twist. It's _not_ , she tells herself, because she's special to _him_. Certainly, she has other reasons to feel uncomfortable around the other woman – like referring to her as a dirty mudblood all throughout their formative years. She should apologize, really. Maybe after another drink, or ten.

The only old classmate who doesn't greet her is _him,_ despite some pointed nudging by Granger, that goody two-shoes swot. Pansy finishes her firewhisky in record time, and is relieved when Neville asks about her research proposals for St. Mungo's.

* * *

Like her mother, Neville's parents had also been permanent fixtures in St. Mungo's chronic maladies ward due to effects of the Cruciatus curse. When Pansy was nineteen, Dahlia Parkinson started to forget who her daughter was. The change was gradual and it was maddening. Like an idiot, she held out for that glimmer of recognition in her mother's eyes, even after the healers had told her Dahlia's moments of clarity were permanently gone.

Not one to take anything lying down, Pansy had yelled at the staff and thrown money around at fruitless treatments. To her frustration, no one could help her mother in any measurable degree. Do I have to do _everything_ myself, she had thought bitterly, before turning to the Magical Maladies library.

She struggled through research articles and studied how different types of magic affected neuromantic connections. Neville had been there too on most days she was. She knew the history of his parents, and it wasn't hard to guess he was there for the same reasons. They nodded politely at each other for nearly a year, until finally, fed-up with yet another dead-end, she strode over to him, threw her papers down, and said something along the lines of, "Fuck this, let's go get a drink."

It was the first time in her life that someone had complimented her intellect. He had been thoroughly impressed that, without any formal training, she had managed to build organized and plausible theories, supported by peer-reviewed literature. They had ended that first evening with plans to present findings to each other the next day.

"You should seriously look for a cure," he had said a few months later, over a homemade dinner ala Hannah Longbottom nee Abbott.

"What do you think I've been doing?" she replied defensively.

"No, honey," Hannah spoke up. "He means, you should do it properly. Go to school for it and really train in all the right ways."

"You have a knack for this sort of thing, Pansy," he said sincerely. "Just think about it."

* * *

"Well, I'm not allowed to comment in any official capacity, of course," Neville says between sips of butterbeer. It's almost half-time and Pansy hasn't returned to watching the game. Instead, she's trying to get Neville to spill about how her proposals are doing in the steering committee.

"Yes, but _unofficially_?"

He smiles. "I would in my professional opinion say that you're a shoe-in."

Pansy purses her lips to hide her grin. She's been working every waking hour, while not on clinic duty, to gather preliminary data for the documents she had submitted. In her glee, she forgets _he's_ there for a split second, judging her with cold blue eyes. She continues to ignore him.

"Wait," a thought occurs to her. "You don't think my father's convictions would…"

Neville grows serious. "I promise you Pans, I'm going to do everything in my power to make sure they don't."

Her giddiness dies down. She knows the Parkinson name is still controversial, but she had hoped her accomplishments would eventually distance herself from her father's Dark Mark.

"Don't worry," her friend says kindly. "There are many of us who believe merit should come before prejudice."

She nods. "Thanks, Neville. I guess all I can do is wait."

She's about to ask about how Hannah's pregnancy is progressing, when the room erupts into the loudest cheer yet.

"It's halftime!" Potter shouts boisterously. His cheeks are rosy from cheering and, Pansy suspects, some generous helpings of firewhisky. "Let's go say hi to Ginny!"

Pansy looks around for Daphne to see if she's keen to go visit Marcus with her, but both her friend and Lovegood have already left the suite. Last time I bring her as my date, Pansy thinks indignantly.

The rest of the crowd files out, cheerily singing the Cannon's fight song.

Pansy declines joining them, deciding that she's not in the mood to flatter Marcus's ego in front of his teammates. Especially since she didn't even know the score.

Content to be alone for the next twenty minutes, she's glad even the bartenders are off duty. She reaches behind the bar and helps herself to another large glass of firewhisky. Alcohol is good, she thinks pleasantly, as she savors the burn.

She's startled when she hears the door open and slam shut. She spins around and watches with wide eyes as _he_ strides in. He looks angry and determined, as he wards the door locked. There is _no_ reason she should be attracted to him in this moment. He looks oddly monochromatic – auburn hair and orange Cannon's fan gear and reddened face. But some idiotic part of her is thrilled to be the focus of his fury, because it means _he's affected by her too_.

"What-"

Before she can get her words out, he's crossed the room and yanked her out of her seat.

"Stop manhandling me," she snaps, set on edge by this forced confrontation.

"Shut up, you _like_ it."

"I do _not,_ you brute. Take your –"

Then he's kissing her and she quickly forgets why she resisted in the first place. Merlin, he's a good kisser. It takes over her senses and goes straight to her core, making her pussy clench in anticipation. It's not until her toes feel like they're burning that she pushes him away and looks down to see that her toes are _literally burning._ Shit, she's spilled firewhisky all over her suede heels.

"Aguamenti!" A stream of water from his wand puts out the flame.

"Are your feet -"

"They're fine."

They eye each other warily, both breathing hard.

She thinks maybe she makes the first move this time but it's hard to tell, because he's rushing towards her too. Their lips crash together so roughly that she feels their teeth clink. She runs her hands under his shirt, over his arms, against his back, tracing the edge of each, delectable muscle. Merlin, he tastes and feels _so good_.

She's glad that she's worn a dress so that he can easily hikes it up and-

"Fuck," he growls when he feels her bare mound. She's taken aback when he steps away, his eyes dark and narrowed. "No knickers? This is for Flint, isn't it? Or are you spreading your legs for other Cannons as well?"

Pansy is still breathing hard from their snog. "It's for _me_." she snaps.

"Fuck you, Parkinson." He steps forward and pushes her back so the edge of the bar is digging in beneath her shoulder blades. "Fuck. You." He slides one hand beneath her dress and the other moves to fondle her breasts.

She moans when she feels his digits enter her. She looks down, fascinated by the tensing of his forearm muscles as he fingers her.

"Pansy Parkinson, pureblood _princess_ ," he sneers, disgust apparent in his tone, as he drives into her roughly. The sweet man who had so awkwardly apologized to her in her bed is nowhere to be seen. The man before her is spiteful and mean and someone she should want nothing to do with.

She knows she should push him away, but he's pulsing his fingers against _that_ spot inside of her and –

"Nuh uh," he says, withdrawing his touch. "Dirty slags don't deserve to come."

She glares at him. "What's your problem, Weasley?"

"I'm just treating you like the slut you are."

"Liking sex doesn't make me a slut," she snaps, standing straighter and smoothing out her dress.

Before she can stalk away, he pushes her back again, trapping her between his frame and the bar.

"Fucking half of England does," he sneers. "Tell me, does Flint's cum taste better because of all those galleons he has?"

"I like _sex._ I'm not a _whore_. Now get the fuck out of my way."

"I'm. Not. Done." He grips her by her waist and lifts her onto a barstool.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" she asks, wriggling against his hold.

"Giving you what you _like._ "

Then he's spreading her legs and stepping between them. She swallows hard as his cock springs free when he unzips his pants. It's every bit as impressive as she remembers.

"Watch," he commands coldly, when she looks up into his eyes.

She knows what he means this time and turns her gaze down between them, at his rod as he pushes inside of her.

"Fuck," she breathes, spreading her legs wider to accommodate him.

"Slut," he accuses, but she can hear the need in his voice. He takes her roughly, digging his fingers into her thighs as he hoists her higher to meet his thrusts. "I can't believe how wet your cunt is. Are you always dripping like this?"

"Shut _up_ , Weasley," she snaps. "You always spoil it by opening your dumb mouth."

"Ron." He punctuates his name with an extra hard thrust. "There are loads of us Weasleys. I want you to be specific."

She ignores him and moans, leaning back and closing her eyes.

"And you love my mouth," he adds, before speeding up, pounding into her furiously. She's certain her back is bruising from being slammed against the bar counter. Merlin. Shit. Fuck. It's too much too fast, which is good, because they both know they won't be alone for long. She comes with a scream within two minutes. He follows shortly after.

"You're so fucking hot like this," he groans, resting his forehead against hers. They're both panting from their exertions.

"Mmm," she replies noncommittally. Her mind is fuzzy with orgasm and firewhisky and a little regret. Okay, a lot regret. Did she seriously just let him fuck her again? While her feet are squishing around in sopping, burnt shoes? In the Chudley Cannon's team box no less? Shit. She has _no_ self-control when it comes to him.

"I need a drink," she says, unable to look at him any longer.

"Let's clean up first." The vehemence is gone from his tone, which for some reason brings a lump to her throat. Don't _cry_ , she scolds herself. Merlin, what a fucking mess.

They hurriedly fix their clothing and cast a few cleaning charms. There's nothing to be done about her shoes, but they're the least of her worries.

"Pansy."

She ignores him, and casts a fifth anti-pregnancy charm. She's not taking any chances with Weasley sperm.

"Pansy," he says again, this time pulling her in to his arms. He lifts her chin so that she's forced to look into his eyes.

Don't cry. Don't cry.

"What?" she snaps.

"Are you alright, love?"

"Oh, like you care."

He frowns. "I do care."

"Fuck you, Weasley."

"I'm getting pretty sick of what a bitch you are after we fuck. And I told you. It's Ron."

"Then maybe you should stop fucking me, _Ron._ "

He looks down at her lips when he speaks. "I don't think I can."

Tentatively, she raises a hand and smooths his hair behind his ears. She likes how he leans into her touch.

"Me neither," she whispers.

He gives her a boyish smile which makes her stomach flip.

"Drink?" she asks, to break the tension.

"Yeah, definitely"

He gives her a gentle peck on the lips before unlocking the door of the Chudley Cannon's box suite.

* * *

When the others return, they find Pansy Parkinson and Ron Weasley sitting at the bar together.

"Love of drinking is the only thing we have in common," he slurs by way of explanation. "Also, I lit her shoes on fire."

Granger smacks him on the arm. "Oh, Ron," she chastises, though there's laughter in her voice.

Pansy does _not_ feel jealous.

"Well, she tried to turn me over to the Dark Lord, so I'd say we're even!" Potter pipes up cheerfully.

Everyone in the group freezes, looking around to assess each other's reactions.

"Too soon?" he says sheepishly.

The only movement which occurs is Neville putting his face in his hands.

"Okay, first of all," Pansy says at last. "These are _suede_ _Louboutin's_ and they're _ruined_ and you look perfectly alive to me,"

To her relief, Potter laughs and claps her on the back. "Fair enough," he says, chuckling. "Come on, Pansy Parkinson! Let's have more firewhisky!"

Today's a very strange day, Pansy thinks, but smiles and does another round with the others. Her head is starting to spin, and everything feels like it's going to be alright. So what if she's just fucked Weasley again? It felt good and it meant _nothing_. Merlin, she loves day-drinking, even with these red and gold losers. She should really come watch quidditch more often.

* * *

Even though she's barely walking straight, Pansy has the wherewithal to not abandon Marcus altogether after the game. She doesn't miss the solemn glance Ron shoots her when she explains that she should wait for the chaser outside of the locker rooms, and that the rest of them should go ahead to the Hogsmeade after party without her.

She spots Marcus before he spots her. He's freshly showered, and changed into proper clothes for going out. He looks every bit the rugged athlete and pureblood heir he is.

He makes a beeline towards her when he sees her.

"Darling," she cooes, giving him her best smile. "You were so amazing out there!"

"Thanks, babe." He slings an arm around her shoulders. "Wow, you smell like a distillery."

"Well, you stuck me in a room with a bunch of Gryffindors."

"Yes, I heard. Well, I guess I have lots of catching up to do." He fishes out a flask from his pocket and takes a swig before apparating them to Hogsmeade.

Pansy beams at him as they walk. This is why Marcus is her go-to guy. He's non-judgemental and always on her level.

"Did you see me knock in four quaffles in a row?"

"Umm, you remember I'm terrible at watching sports, right?"

"Yes, but this is watching _me_."

She rolls her eyes. "Of course. How could I ever take my eyes off of you."

"If only that were true," he says without vehemence. "Well…I can think of a few ways you can make it up to me." He slides his hand down her back to squeeze her arse.

She flinches away. "Marcus…" she warns.

"Oh right," he snorts. "One of your _rules_."

"I just don't want to end up in some tabloid story about being your latest conquest."

"My favorite conquest… how about we go straight to my place then?"

"I –" She hesitates. She feels _wrong_ about going home with Marcus. "Maybe not tonight? Don't you want to go out with your teammates?"

"I should," he groans. "But I can't wait to get you out of this..." He looks her up and down. "What happened to your shoes?"

"Oh that." Pansy flips her hand nonchalantly. "A firewhisky accident."

He appraises her for what feels like a solid minute "You look terrible."

"Excuse me?"

"You look like you've been fucked hard recently."

Pansy almost chokes on her own spit. "What?"

"You heard me."

"Umm… why the hell would you think that?"

"For the love of Salazar, we've been sleeping together for three years, Pansy. I _know_ you. Shit, I see all the signs now. Your hair is messed up…your dress is wrinkled. Why didn't you wear the jersey I gave you?"

"Honestly, because I don't like being _marked_ like that, Flinty. You know how I am."

"Yeah, Pansy. I know _exactly_ how you are."

He pulls her into an alleyway. Even though she's taller than him in her heels, she feels intimidated by his growing aggression. This isn't a side of Marcus she's used to.

"Is that what you were doing at half-time?"

She shrugs.

"Interesting, he's someone you care enough about to cover up."

"Come on," she cajoles. "You've never minded me being with other guys before…"

"You've never lied to me after being with someone else before."

"I didn't lie! Just give me a break, Marcus. What's the big deal?"

"Are you fucking kidding me?" He crosses his arms and looks at her without humor. "You seriously don't see how you've disrespected me, how this is different from before."

"I –"

"Oh, SHIT," he swears loudly. "I just remembered who else _didn't_ come visit the team at half-time. Ginny Weasley was making a big deal about how her brother -"

Pansy's eyes widen. Fucking Flint. He should just sign up for the Auror service and be done with it. His super powers of observation are clearly wasted on chucking a ball through a hoop.

"Okay, okay," she raises her hands, as if in surrender.

He's shaking his head like he can't believe it.

She puts her hand on his chest. "Please, Flinty. I didn't even _want_ it to happen."

"Are you saying he forced you?"

"No… I… "

"Then what are you saying?"

"I didn't _mean_ for it to happen."

"So, you just tripped and fell onto his dick?"

"No, of course not. I –." Pansy hesitates. She's always been honest with Marcus about her flings with other men. It was one of her favorite things about him – that he never got jealous or tried to hold her back.

He gapes at her. "I can't believe this... Do you _like_ him?" he says coldly, shoving her away.

She stumbles, but manages to steady herself. He's pushed her before, but only in bed, and never like he meant it. Pansy remains silent, unsure of how to answer. No, I don't _like_ him. He… _confuses_ me.

He shakes his head. "Fuck you, Pansy. And for the record, you know he'll never take a stuck-up slut like you seriously. Oh wait, never mind. You don't _do_ serious."

"Merlin, you're acting like... like this isn't _exactly_ what you signed up for. How many other women have you fucked this month, huh? This week? You know why this lasted so long? Because you don't actually give a fuck about me and I-"

"You are truly the _stupidest_ witch I've ever met."

"Oh, please," she scoffs. "Don't pretend like you've ever tried to make this more."

He glares at her. "I fucking would have if you let me."

Pansy rolls he eyes. "We both know that's bullshit. If you wanted this to be something _real_ , you would have made a move over… I don't know… the last THREE years as you put it."

"Maybe I was making a move by inviting you to my game!"

"Well it was a lame fucking move then! You know I hate sports!"

She cringes at her own words.

They're silent for a while.

"Marcus," she says softly. "I am _really_ fond of you…"

"Stop it," he says. "You're only making it worse."

She sways in place for a bit. "I should go home…"

Marcus sighs. "Come on, you drunkard. I'll get you to the nearest floo."

Pansy gets lost in her thoughts, as she lets him lead her down the street to a public floo. Why does he get to make her feel bad about this? It's not like he hasn't been screwing his way through Europe's top models. And has she ever complained? Not once. If anything, she _likes_ that he's giving it to other girls.

He spins on his heels to leave as soon as she grabs a handful of floo powder.

"Wait!" she calls after him. When he hesitates, she drops the powder and grabs his hand.

"Don't ruin this, Marcus. Come on… you know we're good together."

"Go home, Pansy," he says without turning around. "And grow the fuck up."

* * *

She takes a sober-up potion when she gets home. Unfortunately, clarity doesn't really help the state of things. Instead, a horrible hangover sets in.

"Bugger!" She rummages through her potions cabinet and realizes she's fresh out of hangover potion. She finds a few vials of expired pepper-me-up, and throws one back. It helps a little.

"Holy merlin," she murmurs when she catches her reflection in her floor-length mirror. She's still wearing the awful orange dress, her normally sleek bob is sticking to her neck, and the char from her burnt shoes are smeared over her shins and calves. She quickly sheds the abysmal garment and heels. Then, she casts a few charms to refresh her hair and dispel the soot from her skin.

To repair the damage done to her vanity, she pulls on a fresh set of silky underthings, and then a flattering green chiffon dress she bought last weekend.

The practical part of her knows that it's ridiculous to get dolled up like this with nowhere to go, but her mother's favorite mantra - _It feels good to look good –_ has never rung truer. She smiles at her reflection when she steps into a pair of gold-tipped stilettos. Good as new, she thinks, as she smooths her hair and assesses her reflection.

Her mother's second favorite mantra – _Nothing a strong cup of tea can't fix_ – guides her downstairs. She clicks her way to the kitchen, admiring the perfect form of her figure in every reflective surface she encounters. She makes herself a cup of Earl Grey, though she barely makes a dent in it before falling asleep on her parlor room settee.

* * *

She wakes up to a pair of ocean blue eyes. For the first few moments, she thinks she's dreaming.

"Oy, sleeping beauty. Wake up."

She groans and sits up. Nope, this is definitely real. Based on the soft light pouring in through the windows and the sounds of birds chirping, she surmises that it's early morning.

She blinks a few times to help moisten her dry eyes. "Weasley?" she says his name sleepily. "What are you doing here?"

He's changed out of his Cannon's clothes and is now wearing a grey pullover which stretches deliciously across his taut chest, paired with dark jeans. His hair is wet, like he's just showered. He's glowering at her, tense as if he's geared for a fight.

"Why are you all dressed up? Were you waiting for _him_?"

"How did you get into my house?"

"You left your floo unlocked."

"Oh," she says dumbly. Disoriented, she reaches for her cold cup of tea and takes a few sips to soothe her dry throat.

"Oh?!" He sneers. "That's all you have to say for yourself? Guess Flint never showed up, huh?"

"Are you under the impression that I _owe_ you some kind of explanation?"

"I just can't get over what a proper slag you are."

"It's pretty fucking ungentlemanly to show up like this to insult me. So, if that's all this is about, then get the fuck out of my house."

"No."

"No?"

"Not until I get what I came for."

"And what's that?"

"The only thing you're good for."

She snorts as she stands, stretching her stiff muscles and summoning her wand.

"Fuck you, asshole."

"That's the idea, slut," he retorts heatedly.

"No, seriously. Fuck you. And fuck all jerks like you. I'm a single, independent woman, which means I get to sleep with whomever I want to. I don't owe you or Marcus Flint or whoever else is _lucky_ enough to fuck me _anything_. And anyway, it hasn't quite been five years since we last screwed, so whatever happened yesterday was apparently four years, eleven months ahead of schedule on your part."

To her satisfaction, his jaw slowly drops open during her tirade. Then, her heart skips a beat, because he's looking at her with sweet, honest-to-goodness _reverence_.

He looks so sincere that when he steps forward to pull her lips to his, she leans in tentatively.

"Maybe you're right," he murmurs into their kiss. "But that doesn't mean you don't want this too."

She moans and reaches down to undo his belt. She can feel his hardness, and he's right. She always seems to want him. Badly.

Impatiently, she pauses their kiss to tug his clothes off. If anyone ever told her she'd salivate over Ron Weasley's freckly form, she'd tell them to check themselves into an asylum, but here she is. Her mouth _watering_ over the hard ridges of his body and the heavy, thick cock she's come to crave.

He groans in frustration and takes a step back, struggling with the small, delicate buttons which hold her dress closed from neck to knee. She watches with hooded eyes as his thick fingers gently slip each pearly button free from its chiffon slit. It's the sexiest thing she's ever seen - this big man sinking to his knees to undress her without magic, despite his _throbbing_ erection.

When the last button is free, he looks up at her with eyes as dark as night.

"You've soaked through your panties," he comments, swallowing hard.

"So, stop teasing and fuck me already." Whatever iciness she intended in her tone comes out closer to a whimper.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. Yes." After a pause, she adds, "Please."

"I love it when you beg." He grins at her and she thinks she might slap him if he doesn't touch her soon.

"Come _on_." She slips her panties off and lies back on the loveseat, spreading her legs so her glistening pussy is open for him.

He's on her in half a second and then _fuck,_ he's easing himself inside of her. He goes slow, as if he knows how sore her cunt is from their rough coupling the day before.

She's lost after he starts to move.

"You feel incredible," he tells her.

She moans and nods and bites his shoulder to deal with the intensity of what he's making her feel.

"Tell me what you want, Parkinson," he murmurs against her neck.

"This," she pants. "Just this."

He comes first this time, groaning hotly into her neck. She squeezes him with her pussy to prolong his pleasure, and her own.

"Fuck, I'm sorry," he says afterwards, reddening in embarrassment. "Let me take care of you."

She kisses his chest and shakes her head. "Don't be."

She hugs him insistently with her legs, when he moves to pull out. "Can you stay just inside of me?" she asks softly.

He smiles crookedly at her. "Of course, love."

He shifts them so they're lying on their sides facing each other. Even though he's soft, he still feels thick and _satisfying_ in her tunnel.

"Weasley?"

"For the love of Merlin, it's _Ron_."

"Right. Ron."

"Yes, Pansy?"

"Why are you here?"

He flexes his cock inside of her. "I should think that's obvious."

"It's really not."

In response, he kisses her, tugging at her lower lip until she opens her mouth for his tongue. The kiss goes on and on until he's hardens within her. Without pulling out, he rocks himself into her deeper and harder until she's gasping and begging and finally pulsing around him in release.

"Is it obvious yet?" he says as she catches her breath, her eyes still closed from the sharpness of her orgasm.

Of course. He's here for sex. Just _sex_.

Briefly, she glances up and catches his smug expression. If she weren't so overwhelmed with pleasure, she'd wipe that self-satisfied grin right off his face.

Instead, she pushes him off of her and sits up. She's afraid that if he looks into her face, he'll know. That she's not really a slut so much as a slut for _him_ , that she doesn't think she'll ever be able to say no to him again. Maybe he already knows this. Maybe that's why he's here.

In her endorphin-filled state, Pansy decides to give in. Just this once. Just for a few hours. Alright, maybe until the end of the weekend. So what if this is Ronald Weasley? His most redeeming quality is his glorious, thick cock. It's just sex. It's just hormones and _chemicals_. Why deny herself when it feels so fucking good?

Pressing her lips together, she closes her eyes to clear her thoughts. Then, with an easy smile, she turns and drapes herself against his side.

"Got it," she replies.

* * *

**END OF CHAPTER 3**

**AN: Hello lovelies! This chapter was _really_ hard to write. Hopefully, it wasn't too hard to read. Based on all my evil (or not so evil) plans, it should all be worth it later. I am REALLY excited about the next chapter, so stay tuned! **

**xoxo,**

**bourbonrain**


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's note: Hey! In case you didn't already know, I cut a big chunk out of chapter 3 (the scene where Pansy and Hermione talk). If you've never read such a scene, then don't worry about it. If you have, then I suggest taking another quick gander at chapter 3, just so the rest of the story line flows for you. Thanks and sorry!  
**

**CHAPTER 4**

* * *

"Luna says your aura has been brighter recently."

"Oooh, what does she say about mine?"

"Hmm, she didn't analyze yours, Mill, but let's ask her to when we get back."

They're sipping champagne, while browsing the Fall season offerings of Madame Ermine's London collection.

"Okay, is no one else annoyed that Looney Lovegood is now constantly around? Seriously, Daph, this is worse than when you thought it'd be a good idea to get us all pygmy puffs."

"I love my pygmy puff! It's too bad you lost yours, Pans."

"That's the last time I put Pansy in charge of any sort of living creature."

"Fuck off. I'm a healer!"

"I'm not sure Luna's right about Pansy's aura being brighter. She seems like the same old grouch to me."

"I'm surprised Looney isn't tagging along today," Pansy grumbles. "Though I suppose high fashion wouldn't be her thing."

"Oh, stop being such a snob," Daphne says, annoyed. "Luna has terrific style. She's so… ethereal."

"Do you think this will look weird with my hips?" Millicent holds up a satiny black garment.

"Mmm, just try it on and see."

"Easy for you two skinny bitches to say. Everything looks good on you."

"True," Daphne says slowly. "But nothing ever pops on us quite like the right outfit does for you."

"Yeah," Pansy agrees. "Damn your ginormous breasts and arse. We always look like boring waifs next to you when you really bring it. Here, try this one on. I think it'll look amazing on you."

The silence between Daphne and Pansy stretches after Millicent disappears into the dressing room.

"I wish you'd give Luna a chance."

"Come _on_ , Daph. Seriously? I _hate_ that she's always analyzing my essence and trying to cleanse my aura or whatever."

"And telling you it's okay to love again?"

"Yeah, what the fuck. She doesn't even _know_ me."

"She's very perceptive."

"She's very something."

"She's my friend, okay? Be nice."

"Ugh," Pansy pouts. "Fine. At least she doesn't bring down the group's average hotness."

Daphne smiles. "I'll tell her you said that."

"Don't you dare."

* * *

She hasn't heard from him since the weekend of the quidditch game. The negative space he left behind feels vast and chilly and aches like the press of a dull blade. They had spent close to two whole days satiating themselves on each other's bodies. Even after she thought her pussy couldn't take anymore, he only had to kiss her or thumb her nipples and she'd ache to have him all over again.

Now, things are too quiet when she goes home alone at night. Her memories of their times together are heavy and thrilling and so all-encompassing that even two weeks later, she's unbalanced and untethered in the everyday of her life that doesn't have him in it.

Worst of all, she can't seem to satisfy herself, a problem which Pansy has never had. When she squeezes her breasts the way she knows she likes, or slips her fingers deep into her pussy, it all feels like a cheap, knock-off version of what _he_ can do for her.

Brighter aura, my arse, she thinks.

* * *

The next time she sees him is unexpectedly at work, on a Friday afternoon. Her heart quickens when she sees that her final patient of the day, a last-minute walk-in, is "Weasley, R., 28-year-old male, chief complaint: purple fingers."

She holds her breath as she gently knocks and then swings open the door.

"Weasley?"

He's sitting on the elevated cot they use to examine their patients. It feels odd to see him in her domain like this, her secret lover in her place of work.

"I was hoping I'd get you, Healer P." The smile he gives her lights up his face. Even his ears perk up. It makes the thoughts she's had in his absence feel all the darker.

He's holding out his right hand, of which his index and middle fingers are covered in a thick purple substance.

Be _professional_ , she tells herself, as she sits down.

"So, what brings you in today, Ron?"

"My fingers are purple," he says solemnly.

"And… how did that occur?"

"Something happened at work."

"What do you do for work?"

"I'm a charms consultant, but sometimes, I help my brother George invent new products for his shop. Perhaps, you've heard of Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes?"

"I have." Pansy pauses to refrain from snapping at him to get to the point faster. "So, the purple material on your fingers. This is an accident from a new invention?"

"Sort of. To help you understand my problem, I think it's best if I show you how it's supposed to work."

"Alright." She sets her pad of paper down to observe.

He rises from the cot. "To show you, I have to get a bit closer… Is that alright?"

She eyes him suspiciously. "…Alright."

Her heart rate speeds up as he moves into her personal space, placing his purple-free hand possessively behind her neck. He crouches beside her and leans in so his lips brush her earlobe. "You need to be quiet, alright love?"

Her eyes widen as she comes to understand that this isn't a normal healer's visit. Fucking Weasley. She should really throw him out of her clinic. Instead, she nods obediently and watches as he slowly parts her legs and slips his hand with the purple substance beneath her skirt.

His touch feels warm and familiar and good through her sheer stockings. The paste on his fingers is rubbery, but still warm like skin.

"Do you trust me, Healer P?" he asks quietly against her ear.

She nods even though she's not sure she does.

He presses his free hand over her mouth, as the other grabs and stretches her stockings until he breaks through them.

She makes a noise in protest.

"Shhh, love. You're going to like this, I promise."

Then, he's massaging her clit and holy _fuck_ , are his fingers _vibrating_? She's at once grateful for his palm muffling her moans. He presses his rubbery digits harder against her nub and the vibrations seem to grow stronger, forcing sharp, dizzying pleasure to spread through her body. She comes instantly. To her horror, he holds her tightly against him and continues to push her higher. He draws climax after climax, whispering dirty things in her ear as she tenses against him with each crest of pleasure.

In the end, she's begging for him to stop. When he finally acquiesces and stands, she collapses limply into her seat, sweaty and flushed and panting for breath. She checks her watch – only ten minutes have passed since she entered the room.

"So… I gather you're not really sick then," she says after regaining some composure.

He's smiling proudly, as he easily rolls the rubbery substance from his fingers and collects it in a small jar he's fished from his pocket.

"No, of course not. The best part," he notes excitedly, "Is that it's charmed to clean itself after removal from skin."

Pansy gives him a blank stare.

"Well?" he looks at her expectantly. "What do you think?"

"I think," she says slowly. "That you can't come into my clinic where I _work_ and do _that_ to me."

"No?" He's still grinning, as he pulls her up and sets her on the patient's cot. "What about this?"

Still exhausted and limp from coming so intensely, she lets him spread her legs and press his very hard erection against the soaked scrap of fabric covering her core. Fuck, she _wants this_. She _wants him_.

Shaking her head more for herself than for him, she crosses her arms over her chest. Pull it together, she tells herself.

"No," she says firmly. "Absolutely not."

"No?" He leans in and kisses her neck.

"I said no, you dimwit!" She pushes against his chest until he steps back. She stands and casts a few spells to repair her torn stockings and to clean the wetness smeared along her inner thighs.

"You idiot! This isn't _porn_. This is my real job, where I do real work! You can't come here and … and -"

"Make you cum your brains out?"

"DON'T interrupt me!"

"You seemed to need some help with your words."

"Merlin, I fucking hate you." She turns her back to him to fix her hair in the small mirror hung in the exam room.

"You really don't." He walks up behind her and pulls her against him.

"Stop touching me," she snaps, but lets him hold her.

"Alright, alright, I'm sorry," he murmurs against her neck. "I just… couldn't wait to test out our newest product on you. I couldn't stop thinking about how wet your pretty pussy would get cumming on my fingers."

She bites her lip to hold back the moan his words bring to her throat.

"Weasley," she hisses. "Stop it."

"Alright, alright," he says again, stepping back. When she turns, he's looking at her with so much desire that she briefly considers another lapse in professionalism.

Fortunately, he doesn't push her any further.

Instead he asks, "When are you done with work today?"

"You're my last appointment, if you can call it that. I have about two hours of paperwork to finish after this."

Briefly, she thinks maybe he's about to ask her to dinner. She's wrong of course.

"I live with Harry, so it's probably best if you don't come over to mine. Maybe we can just meet upstairs at the Leaky Cauldron? I can book a room."

Pansy does her best to keep her expression nonchalant. For fuck's sake, why does she feel _hurt_ that he wants to hide her from Potter? It's what they agreed upon. It's what she asked for. But the ache is still there, heavy and jagged, as she acknowledges that she's a dirty little secret. What's more, she just put her career in jeopardy over something as _stupid_ as her horniness for Ron Weasley.

All at once, she feels indignant and angry. It comes out as snobbery.

"Are you serious?" she snaps. "Maybe women in your past haven't had any _standards_ but I would _never_ meet a man at the Leaky Cauldron."

He blushes. "No, right. Of course not. No matter. I'll figure something better out. I'll send you an owl of where… you _can_ meet tonight, right?"

She glares at him. "Fine, yes."

"Alright." He smiles at her. "Alright, good."

They stand awkwardly in the small exam room.

Sighing, Pansy walks to the door and opens it.

"Well, I'm glad we could help you out, Mr. Weasley," she says loudly. "Please let us know if the condition comes back."

"It's definitely coming back," he says under his breath, as he strolls past her.

"Oh, fuck you," she hisses.

He winks at her in response, and then whistles as he walks away.

Ugh, she thinks hotly. Then, she makes her way to her office and cancels her dinner plans with Millie, Daphne, and Luna. She really hadn't felt like sitting through another meal with the loopy Ravenclaw anyway.

* * *

The location that he owls her is of a muggle hotel in London, which irks her in a way she knows is unreasonable. Probably somewhere he's been with Granger, she thinks bitterly. Still, she hurries home to throw a change of clothes, make-up, and some toiletries into a large tote. She also digs up her muggle wallet equipped with credit cards, in case she has time to make a stop at Bond street afterwards for shopping.

The Langham, as it turns out, is quite close to her favorite muggle stores, which cheers Pansy up considerably. She's further surprised by how _nice_ and proper the lobby is – definitely a far cry from the dank, creaky feel of the Leaky Cauldron.

As she's about to step into the lift, an idea comes to her, one that would make her even _more_ late. She checks her watch and smiles to herself. It'll be worth it, she decides.

A bellman hails her a cab.

* * *

Her heart quickens as she steps out of the lift onto the floor of the suite he's reserved. It occurs to her that this is the first time she's agreed to meet him somewhere, when she's made a concerted effort for the tryst happen. And what an effort she's made…

Suddenly unsure, she hesitates at the door.

"Miss?" The bellman carrying her shopping bags and purse shifts uncomfortably behind her.

Feeling even more foolish for overthinking it, she lifts her chin and pulls her shoulders back.

"Just making sure this is the right room," she says, before rapping sharply on the suite entrance.

Ron Weasley is decidedly _not_ pleased to see her.

"Blimey! Are you seriously late because you went shopping?" he scowls as she tips the bellman. "What is all this anyway?" He pokes one of her shopping bags with his foot. "Loubeeteens? La Perla?"

She shrugs. "You weren't waiting long, were you?"

"Almost two hours, woman! I'm _starving!_ "

"Oh, I am too! Shall we order room service?"

He glares at her and then breaks into a sheepish grin. "I already did."

As he steps back, she sees that a table is set for two in the middle of the large suite. The drapes are drawn, revealing an expansive view of muggle London.

Pansy raises an eyebrow. "Wow, this is… nice."

"Don't act so surprised," he grumbles. "I hope you like steak, because that's what I ordered for you. And I've erm… eaten all the bread already."

Without waiting for her, he sits down and starts pouring wine.

Pansy takes a small breath to calm her nerves, before shedding her coat. He looks up, as she walks towards him in her brand-new five-inch stilettos. His mouth falls open and he almost misses the table completely as he sets down the wine bottle.

She smirks at the awe on his face, as his eyes rove over the delicate lace trimming her body. She knows she makes a striking picture – black heels and black hair, with black straps and lace adorning her pale, smooth skin. The only pops of color are the cherry red of her lips and the pink of her hardened nipples.

"Shall we eat?" she asks nonchalantly.

He doesn't seem to hear her.

"Holy mother of all that is good," he breathes, his gaze lingering on her body before rising meet her own. Any residual irritation is gone and all that's left is reverence and desire.

When she reaches him, she takes his hand and leads him to the bed. Wordlessly, he lets her seat him on the edge and swallows hard when she kneels before him.

"You are so good to me," he says hoarsely, as she runs her hands up his thighs and begins to undo his belt.

"I am," she agrees.

She loves that he's already hard for her. Looking up at him, she starts at the base of his cock and licks up, slowly and deliberately. When she reaches the bulbous head of his rod, she swirls her tongue around his tip and moans at the taste of his pre-cum.

Groaning slightly, he threads his fingers in her hair and pushes himself deeper into her mouth. She lets him guide her up and down, humming her appreciation for his hardness every time he hits her throat.

"I want you to play with your tits," he commands.

She obeys greedily and parts her legs for him when he reaches one hand down to rub her clit.

Amazingly, he grows even harder against her tongue when he runs his fingers against her slit.

"Fuck, you are always so wet," he murmurs, pulling on her hair to withdraw her from his cock.

"I wasn't done," she protests, but lets him lay her back on the bed.

"I know baby, but I need to feel… more of you."

And he does, running his hands over her collarbones and down to her breasts. He takes her nipple into his mouth through the lace of her bra. Her pussy clenches at the sensation of his hot tongue and rough hands teasing her sensitive peaks.

Wanting to feel more of him too, she impatiently undresses him. In her haste, a few buttons pop off. He growls and rises off her, removing the rest of his clothing hurriedly.

"Merlin, you look amazing," he tells her as he climbs onto the bed beside her.

"I know," she says haughtily. So do you, she thinks as her eyes travel hungrily over the hard planes of his body.

He grabs her hips and maneuvers her so she's straddling him.

"I want to watch you ride me."

"Fine," she says, pushing him onto his back. She positions herself over his erection, and wets the tip with her juices before sinking down slowly. Merlin, he fills her so completely from this position. She takes her time, rising and falling at her own pace until her body adjusts to his size. True to his word, he watches her intently, with eyes as blue as sapphires.

She supports herself on with palms on his chest and quickens her pace. Her nerves become charged as she finds the perfect angle. Then, her moans turn into wails as he grips her hips and forces her to sheath more of his cock with every motion.

"Come on, love. Take it all," he grunts.

"Fuuuck," she pants, as he thrusts up forcefully. He slams into some magical part of her that sends stars into her vision and makes her come apart in a heady release. He follows shortly, and she can _feel_ his cock pulsing cum into her pussy.

"So easy," he says afterwards, as she's slumped over his chest like a rag doll. "I love how easily we fit together."

When she recovers enough to look up at him, he pulls her down for a chaste kiss. Well, it starts off chaste, but soon they're both moaning and –

"No… no, wait," she pants, pulling his hand from between her legs. "I really am rather hungry."

"Fuck, I am too."

Reluctantly, they disentangle themselves from each other. Pansy finds her wand and casts a few cleaning spells and an anti-pregnancy charm, before pulling on a sheer black robe from her shopping bag.

"I still haven't forgiven you by the way," he says.

"For what?"

"For being nearly two hours late! I almost had to eat my own foot."

"I thought you ate the bread."

"That _outfit_ though…"

Merlin, the way he grips his cock is so fucking erotic that she drops her wand and practically _tackles_ him back onto the bed.

"Fuck, _yes_." He flips her onto her back and sinks into her in a single motion.

"Ohhh," she moans, letting her legs fall open to receive him. He fucks her decadently, pulling out almost completely before pushing back in with long, forceful strokes. This is so much better than food, she thinks. This is so much better than anything and everything else there is.

* * *

 

"Alright, I've forgiven you," he tells her afterwards.

She rolls her eyes. "Thanks, King Weasley."

"Hmm, I actually don't mind that coming from you. Say 'Weasley is our King.'"

"No."

She's casting warming spells on their plates. Then she waits by the small table as he pulls on his boxer briefs.

"Oh," he says, rushing forward when she looks at him expectantly. Clumsily, he pulls her chair out for her.

She examines the vintage of the wine as he seats himself. They're both in states of barely dressed, which is appropriate because this meal is clearly more of a pit-stop than an event.

"Well," she begins, lifting her glass.

"Well," he echoes, lifting his own.

"To purple fingers," she says with a small smile, clinking her glass to his.

"Purple fingers!" he laughs, beaming at her. "I _knew_ you liked it!"

Conversation is surprisingly not terrible as they dig into their food.

"I didn't know your brother's shop did sex paraphernalia."

"Oh, it's a new adult line we're developing. It all started when Hermione told me about muggle sex toys. Merlin's foot, muggles are a creative bunch. I'll have to show you my collection sometime."

"Right," Pansy says, trying not to think about him and Granger using sex toys on each other. "Well, the purple stuff was… rather nice."

"I'll give you your own jar to play with. We're thinking of calling it the 'digital enhancer.' What do you think?"

"Not bad. I think you could do better though. What about 'purple vibes?"

"Purple vibes? Purple vibes! That's so much better! I'll add it to the list of potential names."

Pansy smiles into her wine glass before she takes a sip.

"Hey, I'm sorry by the way." His tone becomes more somber.

"Hmm?"

"About today. Coming to your work, I mean. You're right, I was out of line."

"You were," she replies cooly.

"It won't happen again."

"See that it doesn't."

"I said I was sorry. Jeez." He scowls, cutting into his meat more forcefully. Pansy winces at the squeak his knife makes with the china.

She sets down her cutlery. "Weasley, my job is really important to me, so while I really liked how hard you made me come this afternoon, you are _never_ to drop in on me like that again. Do you understand?"

"Yeah, yeah, I already said I wouldn't," he answers in exasperation.

"Good."

She finishes her wine and pours them both more.

"It's not like you need the money anyway," he says under his breath.

Her eyes narrow, as she sets the bottle down with more force than necessary.

"What did you say?"

"I _said_ you don't need the money. Why do you even work? You've already got loads of money."

"Oh, fuck you."

"I'm serious. I don't get it, but I…," he hesitates, pushing his finished plate aside to reach for her hand. "I want to understand."

Pansy's eyes soften as his larger hand envelops her own. She gently pulls back to take a large swig of from her glass.

"I," she begins, but then decides she needs another generous sip. "I… um…spent a lot of time at St. Mungo's because of my mother. She was sick for many years before she passed away. What she was sick with… well, I wanted to help find a way to fix it for others, even if it was too late for my mum. Becoming a healer was the best way to do that."

"Oh, Pansy," he says kindly. "I feel like a proper fool. I'm sorry."

"Don't be." She lets out a small, nervous laugh. "I mean.. the likes of you, brave Gryffindor war hero, son and brother to other brave, Gryffindor war heroes. You shouldn't have to apologize to _me_. Because you see…my father was a Death Eater who did many, _many_ horrible things to so very many innocent people. Still, he was apparently not efficient enough about it in the Dark Lord's eyes. Good ole Voldie loved to use the families of his followers to keep them in line. Eventually, the damage from the Cruciatus was permanent in my mum."

"Ah," he says, sitting back and nodding. "No wonder Neville has a soft spot for you."

"Yes," she admits. "Neville has been… wonderful."

He raises his eyebrows. "That's high praise coming from you."

She looks away, feeling silly for having shared so much about herself.

"I like you like this."

"In lingerie?"

"Well, yes, but also… when you're being _real_."

"Don't look at me like that," she says.

"Like what?"

"Like you feel sorry for me. I don't want your pity."

"It's not pity. It's… I'm going to be honest with you. For years after the war, I resented anyone who had been associated with Voldemort … you know, really anyone who had been against us."

"Ah, including me I suppose."

He clears his throat uncomfortably. "Yeah, I suppose. It was something Hermione and I used to fight about. I was pissed at her for being so _forgiving_. Merlin, that makes me sound like an arse. But I was pissed at most of the Slytherins in school for following Umbridge's orders. And I was especially miffed at that tosser, Malfoy. Not just for the things he did, but because Harry and Hermione forgave him so easily."

"I see."

"No, you don't. It took me years to understand myself. You see, they didn't grow up in the wizarding world. They don't _really_ understand the culture of the sacred twenty-eight… how the likes of the Malfoys and Parkinsons and whatnot look _down_ on us Weasleys. I suppose I was angry at you lot even before the war, before any of it."

Pansy doesn't say anything, because it's true. She did look down on him and his siblings and their worn robes and used books. Maybe some small part of her still does.

"Well, the tables certainly have turned, haven't they?" She rises from the table to look for something warm to put on. Suddenly, it all seems so trite – dressing up for him like this. She feels cold and exposed and foolish.

She hears his steps padding behind her, as she pulls on the soft, plush robe hung in the closet.

"Hand me the other, will you?"

Wordlessly, she yanks the second robe from the hanger and passes it to him.

"Pansy." He stops her when she moves to walk around him. "I'm trying to say that I was _wrong_."

"But you weren't. Our families did _awful_ things. Draco was forced to … Merlin, he almost _killed_ people. He has to live with that for the rest of his life. And you and your friends – you were the heroes _saved_ us all."

"It's not that simple."

"It really, really is."

"No, because when I'm with you-"

She makes an incredulous sound with her throat. "Being good at fucking doesn't make me a saint, Weasley. I'm not a good person, and I don't try to be."

"How can you say that?"

She shrugs and reaches for the bottle of wine.

"It's _empty_ ," she says in horror.

He grins at her. "Don't worry, love. We can call for more on the tellycone."

She rolls her eyes, which feels good and familiar because it's safely out of the territory of too-many-feelings. "It's tele-PHOne, Weasley. Didn't you grow up with muggleborns as friends?"

He shrugs. "Tellycone. Tellyfone. Either way, we get more wine."

"Ooh, let's make it champagne instead!"

"I like how your brain works, woman."

* * *

Three bottles of champagne and another round of room service later, they're tipsy in the best way and she's rocking gently on his lap with him buried deep inside of her. She's exhausted and her nerves are fried, but it still feels good to be filled by him. They're outside on the balcony, which they've covered assiduously in disillusionment charms. Around them, the sounds of the city are rising to the paling sky.

"Weasley," she says. "I'm tired."

He nods against her chest before helping her up. "Let's go to sleep, love."

They make their way inside, where Pansy promptly collapses onto the bed.

"Is there anywhere you need to be tomorrow? Erm, today," he asks while pulling the curtains closed.

"I have some dinner plans with Millie."

"How disappointing."

"Hmm?"

"That I only get to keep you for a few more hours."

She smiles against his throat as she snuggles into him on the sex-stained bed. He pulls the covers over them and traces small circles on her bare back.

As she drifts off, she tries to remind herself that this isn't sure footing to anything _real_. That even he's admitted that he's always resented her and her sort. But, in the moment, she feels safe nestled in his side under the weight of his arm.

"Well," she says. "I suppose I could cancel."

"Yes," he answers sleepily. "Yes, do that."

* * *

**END OF CHAPTER 4**

**Author's note: Ahhh there's so much more to write for their time at the hotel! I decided to end it here for now, so that this doesn't turn into a 10,000 word chapter. Also, if you've read any of my other fics, yes, this is yet another hotel/inn scene. I honestly have no idea why I write so many hotels into my stories. - pauses in self-reflection, but can't come up with anything -**

**Thank you so very much to all of you who left reviews! Some readers (more so on ffnet than on here) seemed to have some strong feelings about how Pansy deals with men and her own sense of self-worth. I think Ron has his own struggles too, so it's been interesting writing these two imperfect characters together. I actually have written _pages_ of backstory outline for Ron, but since this is all from Pansy's point-of-view, I'm not sure how much of it will actually come through in the story.**

**Anyway, I absolutely can't wait to get more of what's in my head onto your screen! The next chapter is going to have some really epic lines (IMHO), so stay tuuned!**

**xoxo,**

**bourbonrain**


	5. Chapter 5

* * *

" _Reparo_! _Reparo_!" He's waving his wand at his shirt, while Pansy watches in tacit amusement.

It's early afternoon the next day, and they've finally decided to dress and venture into the muggle world in search for food.

"This is all my fault," he says. "Guess I'm just so sexy that you had to destroy my shirt to get to my delicious body."

This earns an eye roll. "I don't get it," she says. "The buttons are around here _somewhere_."

"I think this shirt has been reparo-ed too many times," he says, scratching his head. "After a while, the buttons just don't go back on anymore."

"Ah, you get buttons ripped off on the regular, do you?"

He gives her a cheeky grin. "Well, I _am_ a war hero."

"And you call _me_ a slut."

His smile fades. "Pansy –"

"Oh, calm down, Weasley. I'm only joking. It's a dreadfully ugly garment anyway. At least at Hogwarts, you had being dirt poor as an excuse to dress badly. Now," she says, wrinkling her nose. "It's clear you just have deplorable taste."

He gives her an unreadable look. "I'm sorry this shirt offended you so, Princess Pansy. Is _that_ why you ripped it off in such a frenzy?"

She blushes and looks away.

"I'll replace it, of course," she says, rising to look for the telephone. The room is an utter mess, unsurprising given that they'd fucked on nearly every surface the night before. She had to cast healing charms on their loins, after which, of course, they fucked again.

"Don't bother," he protests, as she looks under a sofa cushion. "I think I can transfigure my undershirt into a t-shirt."

She ignores him and finds the phone by using a quick Accio.

"Hello?" she says into the receiver. "Ah yes, could you purchase two or three men's button-up shirts on Pansy Parkinson's tab at Fenwick's? Hmm, he's about 6'2 and about 12 or 13 stone. I'd guess about 16 neck, 40 chest, and 34 waist. Ahh, yes, yes. Why not? In-seam is about 33. Yes, post-haste. Thank you, darling."

"You really don't have to buy me clothes, Parkinson," he says after she hangs up.

She looks him up and down. "I really do. Your wardrobe leaves something to be desired."

"I _like_ my clothes. They're nice and comfortable and -"

"And hideous."

His eyes narrow. "You're being a bitch."

"I'm still right."

"You know, looks aren't everything."

She snorts. "Right, because that's why you're fucking me. For my personality."

"Did you just insult your own personality?"

She busies herself with finding lip gloss in her purse, to avoid his gaze.

"Or are you just fishing for compliments?" he continues.

"Fuck off, Weasley."

He tugs her bag from her hands and sets it down. Then, he pushes her down and spreads his own weight over hers on the rumpled bed.

"How long do we have until these fancy shirts arrive anyway?"

Her eyes drop to his lips. "Enough time."

He reaches between her legs and shifts her thong to the side.

She's wet within seconds of his ministrations.

"Shit," she breathes at the fullness of his cock stretching apart her inner walls.

"I can't get enough of this pussy."

"Never enough," she agrees.

"You are the best thing," he tells her. "The absolute best. Merlin, your quim feels so fucking good."

"Mmm."

"Tell me how it feels for you," he commands, as he deepens his thrusts, slamming relentlessly into that spot that makes her see fireworks.

She moans her approval.

"Tell me," he insists.

She hates when he asks this of her. Partly because she thinks he just wants to hear how big his cock is, and the ice queen part of her refuses to give him the satisfaction. Partly because the sensations are too much to put into words when they're connected like this.

Each thrust is a blow and she turns into smashed fruit every time– wet, tender, and ruined. Worst of all, she feels _sweet_ as she becomes mush beneath him. Like she could live to please him and grow to be better for him and... No. Stop. None of that. Because why would she want such things with Ron Weasley and how could she possibly ever have them. No, just no. Stop thinking. Because she's almost there and all she wants is to cum again, and again, and again.

"Good," she tells him, honestly. "You feel really good."

He fucks her harder, as if to punish her for her unsatisfactory response.

"Come on, Parkinson," he says, his voice rougher now. "You can do better than that."

"I feel…" she begins, but loses her place in thought when stars overtake her vision.

"Like a slut?" he prompts her.

"Yes, yes."

"Like _my_ slut."

"Merlin, yes. Your slut."

"Say it."

"Fuck, please, please don't stop."

"Wrong answer," he pants and to her chagrin, his fingers leave her clit, but oh, oh, _there_.

He's ramming a finger into her ass, and it hurts in the best way and she feels so, so full, and fuck, her pussy is throbbing in release around his cock. Even though he feels too hard and is buried too deep against her sensitive walls, her cunt still clenches involuntarily around him, prolonging her orgasm until all color fades from her sight, and then all light.

He's still stiff inside of her when she comes to. His dark blue eyes are cold and a wry smirk thins his lips.

"This," he says, as he resumes his thrusts. "Is why I'm fucking you."

She whimpers as he palms her breasts, her nipples already engorged and so very eager to be touched.

"To watch you cum like the slag you are."

She doesn't respond, can't as she struggles to catch her breath while her nerves become fired up again. She's relieved when he pulls out, but the respite doesn't last for long. He flips her onto her knees and pushes back inside of her in a single stroke.

"Too much," she sobs, arching away from him to ease the intrusion. "Please… it's too much."

"Nah," he says against her ear, though he slows and gentles his movements. "You were made for taking cock."

"Yes," she moans, after she eventually adjusts to this new angle. "Merlin, yes."

"You want to know why I'm fucking you?"

"Mmm," she tries to respond. "Yes.. Tell me."

"To watch Pansy fucking _Parkinson_ be a slut for _my_ cock." He punctuates this by pressing deep inside of her and flexing insistently against her cervix.

"And _my_ fingers." He pushes two fingers into her ass this time, and she cums instantly again, screaming into the sex-stained sheets.

Vaguely, through the haze, she registers that he's grunting his release too and she honestly can't tell if the throbbing of flesh where they're joined is from her or from him.

He pulls out and falls back onto the bed beside her. They hadn't bothered to undress this round. His cock and balls are spilling out of his trousers and her dress is hiked wantonly around her waist.

For minutes, they don't speak or touch. As she comes down from the high of sex, she registers that his words hadn't been sweet, or even remotely nice. She turns away from him, and he doesn't pull her back.

* * *

Eventually, the silence is interrupted by a knock at the door. When she doesn't move, he sighs and rises from the bed. She hears the sound of his fly being zipped and his footsteps as he makes his way to the door.

"Cheerio, mate," he says pleasantly, followed by the tell-tale rustle of shopping bags.

The door closes.

She tries to remember why on earth she thought it'd be fun to be play dress up with Ron Weasley. It's just that she had felt so very _close_ to him last night. And it had been so _nice_ to wake up beside him. He'd been sweet and reverent and fun. Nothing like the jerk that had just wrenched orgasms from her like a predator ripping flesh from prey.

She sits up and finds her wand. Ignoring him, she casts cleaning and contraception spells, as well as smoothing spells for her rumpled dress and tangled hair.

He drops the sleek, Fenwick's bag unceremoniously on the couch.

"So," he says. His voice is still hard and without humor, the prickly version of him from before they ever fucked.

"What?" she snaps, moving about the room to gather her things in order to get the fuck out of there.

"I think I owe Flint a thank-you note. He was absolutely right about sticking fingers in your arse."

She pauses her packing to shoot him her coldest glare. "I suppose scum like you thinks it's acceptable to discuss a woman's vagina with other men."

"Technically, we were discussing your arsehole."

"That's not funny."

"It's a little funny how you squirted, just like he said you would."

"Alright, fucker. If you're trying to say that I'm a huge fucking slag, I get your point already. Happy?"

Now desperate to leave, she casts a general shrinking spell over her shopping bags and then drops them easily into her large tote. She feels his eyes on her, as she slips into her new fuck-me heels, which she'd bought to please him. Merlin, what a dumb idea that had been.

"Hey, it's not my fault you fuck guys who want to share details about your cunt and arse. It's you with your horrid taste in men."

"Well, I suppose I should turn over a new leaf then," she snaps. "I think I'll start by telling you to fuck off, Weasley."

She glances in the mirror to verify that not a thread or hair is out of place. Satisfied, she pulls her shoulders back, holds her chin high, and strides to the door.

She resents herself for wanting him him to follow her, and like an idiot, she doesn't push him off when he presses her against the door to keep her from opening it.

"Fuck, you're hot when you're mad," he says, brushing her hair aside to lay a kiss against her neck.

She doesn't move, warring with herself between how much she hates this man and how much she still wants him. Even this cruel, vengeful side to him.

"Come on, Pansy." His voice is kinder and softer now. "I'm sorry I pushed you. I just... bollocks, I... don't want you to go."

Against her better judgement, she leans back against him, and lets him wrap his arms around her waist. He smells like sex and summer, and dammit, she doesn't want to go either. Not really. Not at all.

"Please," he says again.

At this, she drops her bag and turns around. "Why should I stay?"

She thinks he's going to kiss her, but instead he pulls her into a full embrace.

"I told you. You, me, this…it's the best I ever remember having."

"Bullshit."

She feels him shake his head against hers. He clears his throat. "And anyway, I need you to help me try on all my new shirts."

She almost smiles at this.

"Fine," she says.

* * *

It's another two hours before they manage to make it out the door. By then, they're too famished and parched to fuck again and they both agree that it's time for some fresh air.

She feels odd to be out in the world like this with him, even if they're unlikely to be spotted by anyone they know. He doesn't try to hold her hand, so she keeps her arms crossed against her chest, pulling her wrap closed against the chilly dusk air.

They find a charming tapas restaurant and sit by a heat lamp on the patio. All around them, muggles mill about, unaware that the black-haired woman and red-headed male sharing a candlelit dinner had been enemies in a brutal war, and were, or rather _are_ from families which have resented each other for centuries. They look like any other couple, mulling over wine and appetizers, sharing bites from each other's plates.

Throughout it all, she has to remind herself to be wary of this man who can make her cum harder than she ever has in her life, and who doesn't hesitate to use pleasure to both worship and hurt her. She also knows she shouldn't confuse this as a real date, even though that's what it feels like as she sips her wine and listens to him explain his transition from classic warding charms to algorithm-chained magic. To keep the peace, they talk mostly about work, seeing as how almost everything else could quickly turn into touchy subjects for the two of them. She nods and smiles and goes with it. When he asks about her work at St. Mungo's, she tells him about her ideas for diagnosing and treating magic-induced brain injuries. She's pleased when he looks impressed.

* * *

"You've _changed_ ," he tells her, when they're back in the suite. The room is pristine, all evidence of their fucking erased by a visit from maid service while they were gone. A fresh slate.

"Hmm?" She's pouring them vodka out of miniature liquor bottles from the kitchenette.

"You're so different from how you were in Hogwarts." He says this seriously, like an accusation.

"Yes, well," she laughs uncomfortably. "You're exactly the same."

He doesn't say anything for a long while, and she thinks she's somehow offended him again, because his jaw is set at that hard, stubborn angle she's come to recognize. Wordlessly, he accepts the glass she hands him, though he doesn't drink from it.

"Except, I never would have guessed you'd be so good in bed," she adds lightly.

His eyes meet hers, as a smirk twists his lips askew. "So, you agree then, that our fucking is the best you ever had."

She sets down her drink and slides down so she's kneeling between his knees. Holding his gaze, she carefully draws his cock out and gently kisses the tip. "It's my absolute favorite," she says softly, before taking him into her mouth.

"Fuck," he breathes.

* * *

Pansy wakes before he does the next morning. It's Monday. They've only gotten about three hours of sleep, but she needs to stop by home before her shift at St. Mungo's.

Beside her, he's sleeping with his mouth open and snoring a bit, which ridiculously, makes her want to brush her lips against his cheek. She resists this urge and instead, slips gingerly out of the warmth of the rented bed they've used so thoroughly. In the cool air of the room, she winces at the weariness of her muscles and the soreness of where he's penetrated her.

On her way to the bathroom, she spots an envelope slipped under the door. Bending down, she picks it up. It's the bill for the room. Curious, she peaks inside. The final balance makes her eyes widen. Quietly, she puts it back where she found it.

In the bathroom, she examines her body in the full-length mirror. Bruises from his fingertips are starting to show on her breasts, hips and limbs. Each of the times they'd fucked over the last few months, she had kept his marks as temporary souvenirs, but she decides to heal these ones today. She doesn't want reminders anymore. Her head is already too filled with him.

In the shower, she tries to think about all the work she didn't do this weekend. Instead, her mind drifts over all the questions she's afraid to have answers to, about this _thing_ with Ron Weasley.

* * *

He's sitting up and rubbing his eyes, when she comes back into the bedroom. The London fog lends a blue-grey tint to the early morning light. He looks pale and freckly and young, so much like the boy she knew from school.

"You weren't going to leave without saying goodbye, were you?"

"I thought I'd let you sleep."

He watches her dress.

"Come here," he says when she's done.

"I have to be at work in less than an hour."

"Just… come here. This will be quick, I promise."

Warily, she sits on the edge of the bed and lets him draw her against him.

With a wave of his hand, he summons something from his pack. He pushes it into her hand.

It's a wand.

"I … erm. We make these sorts of joke wands at George's shop and well, this one is for you."

"Thank you?"

"It's harmless. Go on, give it a try. A spiral motion works best."

She cautiously draws a small circle in the air, and from the tip of the wood, a stream of delicate, multi-colored pansies spew onto the bed.

"Oh, they're _real!_ " she says in surprise.

"Yup." He grins sleepily at her delight.

"Ah, pansies for Pansy. How original," she quips wryly, though she smiles in spite of herself.

He blushes.

"Thanks, Weasley. This will, um, really come in handy someday, for something."

"I thought it might."

"Well." She pushes away from him and stands. "I really must be off."

"Right-o."

Before their goodbye can get any more awkward, she tucks the pansy wand into her bag and apparates home.

* * *

Thankfully, she's swamped with patients and meetings when she gets to work, and there's no time to think about their weekend in muggle London.

She gets a moment to herself at lunch, during which she does a quick pounds-to-galleons conversion. It's as she suspected – the bill for the suite had to be at least a month's salary for him, even if his brother's shop was doing exceptionally well. She doesn't know what to think.

Before she can obsess any further Neville pokes his head into her office. "Are we still on for lunch, Pans?"

She looks up, startled. "Right. I'd forgotten. Yes, do you think we can be back before two?"

* * *

"You look tired," Neville observes, when they're seated at a café in Diagon Alley.

"I didn't sleep well last night."

"Is everything alright?"

"Swell. Everything is just swell."

He looks at her carefully, and she's glad that she's too exhausted for embarrassment to draw color to her face.

"I might have some bad news," he says finally.

This brings Pansy's focus fully into the conversation. For the first time, she notices that he's looking at her with apprehension.

"What is it?"

"I want you to know that based on merit alone, your proposal would be in the top five, out of hundreds that we received this year."

He pauses, as if searching for words. He needn't bother. She knows what he's trying to say.

"But it's never about merit alone, is it?" she chimes in bitterly. "No one wants to give grant money to the daughter of a Death Eater, not to mention the woman who tried to hand Harry Potter over to the Dark Lord."

"I'm sorry, Pansy."

"Merlin, it's not even about the money. I could pay for this on my own, but I need the laboratory space, the credibility of being publicly funded… students and experts who would want to work for me… Fuck. Just… fuck."

"And you deserve all that."

"Well, the committee doesn't think so, do they."

"Do you want a fire whiskey?"

"No," she says glumly. "I want to be taken seriously."

"The final vote isn't until next week, but..."

"But it's not looking good." She pushes the rest of her salad away, her stomach too constricted by disappointment to deal with food.

"No, it's not. I'm really sorry I got your hopes up. I truly thought -"

"Neville!"

Pansy looks up, and her stomach twists into a tighter knot. They've been interrupted by Hermione Granger's cheerful presence.

"I _knew_ that was you. Oh, hello, Pansy."

She tries her best not to glare at the other woman. And _fuck_ , of course. _He's_ here too. Standing behind Granger, barely meeting her eyes, is the man who she had woken up next to just hours ago.

"Hey," he says, mostly to Neville.

"Hi," Pansy says politely from her seat, as the three Gryffindors exchange hugs.

"We were just doing some lunch hour shopping for Harry's birthday next weekend," Granger explains, excitedly. "You are coming, aren't you, Nev?"

"Of course. Hannah and I will be there!"

"Great… great." She trails off as her eyes drop to Pansy. "Well, sorry for interrupting your meal. We'll be off now."

Pansy keeps her expression neutral as she watches Hermione Granger link elbows with Ron Weasley, as they make their way down Diagon Alley. It's so different from how he had walked with _her_ in London, side-by-side at a proper distance, careful to not brush his hand against hers.

"Will you be alright?" Neville breaks the silence gently.

"I'm always alright."

"I wish there was something else I could do."

"It is what it is. Thank you…for trying, that is."

"There's always next year."

"Right."

"It's, um, almost two o'clock."

"Right, we should get back then."

* * *

The afternoon is busy like the morning was, and Pansy is grateful for the distraction. It's not until well into the evening that she has time to pick up her unread owls before flooing home.

There's a note from him in the pile.

 _"_ _You looked so hot at lunch today."_

She crumples it up and throws it into the fire.

She had been so _stupid_ , mulling over a few extra galleons as if it could mean that he _cared_ , when clearly, she's nothing but some secret skank to him. But isn't this exactly what she wants? What she'd wanted Marcus to be for her? Really good sex, without strings. But there are strings, she reminds herself. Because he's Ron Weasley and she's Pansy Parkinson, and clearly, he's still keeping scores to settle.

She digs the pansy wand from her purse and considers throwing it into the flames as well. Thinking better of it, she brings it upstairs with her and tosses it into an old trunk in her closet.

She has more important things to worry about than Ronald Weasley.

* * *

**END OF CHAPTER 5**

**Author's note: Okay, so I think maybe I should apologize, because I left chapter 4 on such a happy, hopeful note, and now things are all dark again. Such is angsty love though, right? Don't worry. There are plans in place for R & P to come to terms with and express their feelings properly... eventually.**

**Very special thanks to everyone who left reviews. It really is so encouraging and useful to get your thoughts on how the story is progressing.**

**Anyway, thank you for sticking with this story! We're about half-way done now, with some interesting developments about to happen for R & P next chapter... **

**xoxo,**

**bourbonrain**


	6. Chapter 6

* * *

"Thanks a lot for ditching me last weekend."

"Well, hello to you too."

Pansy is nursing a drink at the bar, when Millicent arrives for their girl's night dinner. As usually, Daphne is running late.

"I really needed you Pans. Finn and I broke up again…"

Pansy instantly feels bad. Millie and Thorfinn Rowle had been on and off for the last seven years. In Pansy's not-so-humble opinion, Rowle's chronically cheating arse has never worthy of her friend. She couldn't understand why Millie, who takes zero shit from the rest of the world, forgave Rowle's every indiscretion.

"Shit, I'm sorry, Mill."

And she genuinely is. Pansy isn't typically the sort of woman to ditch her friends for a man, and regrets doing so to be hate-fucked by Ron Weasley.

"Vodka, neat," Millicent orders when the bartender comes to their section of the bar.

"Make that two."

"I can't believe I thought he was going to propose. Merlin, I am such a fool."

" _I_ can't believe you would have said yes. You know how I feel about him."

"He's gotten better, Pans. He was so much more attentive this time around and - "

"So, why'd you break up then?"

" _He_ broke up with _me_. Said he needed 'space' to think."

"That fucker. How long was this run … two years?"

"Two and a half."

"Fuck. I'm sorry."

"Yeah, I am too. Merlin… I don't know what to do with myself. I stayed with Daph this weekend, as he moved all his stuff out. I went home for the first time last night...It's so empty without him. Everywhere I look, I just can't stop thinking about good memories of when he was there. I don't even know what to do with myself anymore. Like, I still feel like he's _it_ for me."

"Is he? That asshole who cheated on you every time you went into a different room?"

"I _love_ him."

"Don't be stupid, Mill."

"See? This is why I need you. You know how free love and hippy-dippy Daphne gets. Plus, Luna was around ALL weekend. I like the lady, I do, but I don't need someone sprinkling nargle dust around me right now - "

"She was only trying to help." Daphne has arrived and she's glaring at both of them. "I'm sick of you guys always downing on Luna. She's _nice_ and _kind_ and –"

"Hey, I just said I like her!"

"Come _on_ , Daph. She's annoying _._ "

"Like you're some fucking ray of sunshine."

"Alright, alright," Millie speaks up. "Let's all take a breath-"

"I'm _sick_ of her always hanging around," Pansy interrupts angrily. "We almost never see you without her anymore!"

"Well, get used to it! She's here to stay," Daphne says evenly, as if posing a challenge.

"I don't get why you're making such a big deal about this. Why do you care if I don't like her? You know I don't like most people."

"She's not 'most people'," Daphne snaps.

"I can't believe we're fighting over Luna Lovegood," Millie comments.

"Yeah…," Pansy says slowly. She looks at her friend thoughtfully. The last time they fought like this was when Pansy had disparaged Theo Nott for having to work, after his assets were frozen by the ministry. Turned out Daphne had been dating him on the sly for months, and didn't appreciate Pansy's remarks about her new boyfriend.

"Daph," she says, her tone softening. "Wait, do you… _love_ her?"

The other woman looks miserably down at her hands. "I have for years I think, and when we bumped into each other at the quidditch game…"

"What about Theo?" Millie asks gently. "Does he know?"

Daphne nods, brushing tears from her face. "He… we decided to take a break."

"So that's why he wasn't around your flat this weekend."

"Fuck," Pansy says.

As the three best friends discuss Millie's breakup and Daphne's new relationship slash love triangle, Pansy thinks about confessing her rendezvouses with Weasley, but the words won't leave her lips.

Mill and Daph are talking about love. Like sacrifice your pride, do anything for them, procreate and grow old together type commitment.

Her secret trysts with Weasley – their body-bruising, nerve-altering, mind-fucking _thing_ – feel paltry and insubstantial in comparison.

* * *

It's not that Pansy doesn't believe in love, contrary to what her ex-lovers might say.

Her best friends - would never describe her to be a loveless being. After over two decades of friendship, they've come to know Pansy's love to be fierce and unconditional.

She also certainly loved her parents, despite how imperfect she found them to be in the end. She weighs their sins against the memories of her idyllic childhood. As Voldemort lay dormant for nearly a decade, Pansy's youth was blessed with the sort of thorough and absolute love reserved for only children. Because her mother insisted on following summer around the globe, they partook in frequent and luxurious travel, with only occasional stays at their sprawling country estate in England.

One particular truth was apparent everywhere they went – that the Parkinson's exemplified the _best_ sort in every measure that mattered. They had venerated purity in their veins and grand, ancient riches in their vaults. They were well-connected through her father's important position in the ministry, and her mother's beauty and elite soirees were revered throughout society. Anyone who had less _was_ less.

To date, her closest friends are still the playmates her parents had chosen for her before she could walk – heirs of other obscenely wealthy sacred twenty-eight dynasties. Such was the decadent, sheltered world they were born into.

Hogwarts was an uncomfortable adjustment, to say the least. Like her mother, Pansy didn't hesitate to remind those less fortunate of their place, a personality trait which was rather unpopular with her professors. As an eleven-year-old, Pansy turned up her nose at their disdain. The likes of McGonagall and Sprout were _lesser_ than the Parkinson's, and frankly, mattered _none_ in the grand scheme of things. And for Merlin's sake, had they never heard of skin care? Or mirrors for that matter? Pansy easily scraped by in her classes and kept to the friends her parents had deemed suitable.

* * *

Embarrassingly, the only time she'd ever truly felt romantic love was during her brief fling with Draco Malfoy when they were sixteen.

Somewhere in the back of her mind, she knew Draco was the exact type she was expected to marry someday. Still, she was surprised when he kissed her late one night, when they found themselves alone in the common room.

Earlier that school year, he had bragged to their inner circle about some grand task assigned by the Dark Lord. As the months wore on, he became withdrawn and quiet, often disappearing for hours at a time without explanation. As Cygnus Parkinson's daughter, Pansy could guess what sort of strain he was under.

It wasn't her first kiss, or even her first shag. Eager to rid herself of virginity, she had experienced a thorough sexual education with Graham Montague nearly two years prior.

Still, her first kiss with Draco _slayed_ her. She had already loved him as a friend. He had taken her to the Yule Ball after Montague had snubbed her in favor of Tracey Davis (because unlike Pansy, she was willing to do anal). Draco always saved her the rose cream truffles from the deliveries of sweets Narcissa sent him, knowing they were her favorite. When Pansy was called to St. Mungo's after her mother had her first mental collapse, Draco was there alongside Millie and Daphne, waiting for her return.

Nervousness constricted her stomach as he led her past the sleeping forms of Vincent and Greg to his own bed. That night, she came to love him with every touch, kiss, lick, and suck. When he pushed inside of her, she tenderly stroked his back and wanted nothing more than to provide him with pleasure.

Afterwards, as her heart was full of longing and sweetness, he thanked her for being a good friend, for serving as the distraction he needed. Heartbroken, she was far too proud to explain how she felt. She told herself he'd love her back when he could. When all of this business with the Dark Lord and Dolores Umbridge and Harry Potter was over.

She let him fuck her whenever he wanted to after that, and tried to not let it bother her that he wanted to keep it a secret from their friends. Each time coincided with something terrible happening around the school - Ron Weasley getting poisoned, Katie Bell almost dying, Draco himself nearly torn to shreds by some mysterious spell – or after he had disappeared off school grounds, presumably for a meeting with the Dark Lord. It bothered her that he never confided in her, even as they lay naked together in his bed, but she never resented him for it. As she watched him became a gaunt shadow of the brash boy she'd grown up with, she was glad to be there for him in any way he needed.

After Dumbledore died, he disappeared altogether and she didn't see him again until the Last Battle. Her owls came back unopened. Pansy could take a hint. She knew she was the least of his worries.

* * *

When they both returned to Hogwarts to make up their seventh year, she waited for him to make a move. She ached for him to reach for her hand, to be under him again, to be loved by him the same way she loved him. One night, they got drunk together under the moonlight beside the Great Lake. Her heart sped up as he pulled her in close.

"You're my best friend, Pans," he had said, brushing her hair behind her ears. "Thank you for being there for me."

It was the closest they would ever come to talking about the nights she shared her body with him. She smiled and tried her best not to cry as he kissed her on the cheek. Pansy realized then just how _pathetic_ she'd been.

It didn't help that he had started spending an inordinate amount of time in the library, sitting at the same table as Hermione fucking Granger.

"Off to study with the mudblood again?" she had sneered one afternoon, annoyed that he was choosing the other girl's company over her own.

He paused mid-step on his path out of the Slytherin common room, and gave her a look that ran between contempt and pity.

It pissed her off.

"So, are you fucking her then?"

He looked away. "No. She's with Weasley." He sounded resigned, like some lovelorn puppy. It made her insides hurt.

"Then what gives?" she pressed. She wanted to ask him why he preferred Granger over her. Instead she said, "You used to hate that know-it-all bitch."

He shrugged.

"Merlin, Draco. I don't even know you anymore."

He shrugged again. "The world has changed. There's more to life than pure blood and expensive robes, Pans. Try to get that into that vapid little brain of yours."

He'd never used that tone with her before. She flipped him off before he stormed out. They didn't speak for almost a month after that. Best friend or not, she was done waiting for Draco Malfoy.

* * *

After graduation, she went out with Justin Finch-Fletchley, even though he was a half-blood with barely a knut to his name. He was handsome, and sweet, and made her feel desired. Plus, she figured it was time she had a real boyfriend. She never quite loved him, but she liked him enough until she overheard him bragging about bagging a rich bitch to his friends.

Though the Parkinson name was dirt after the war, it was no secret that Pansy was one of the wealthiest witches in England. She certainly didn't lack for suitors, but after Justin, she was constantly wary of men's motives. Eventually, it was easier just to keep things physical, to stop expecting more.

* * *

Pansy, Millie, and Daphne end up drinking way too much that night.

Pansy wakes up sometime around six am in her study, face down and drooling onto her desk. A jar of magically permanent ink has tipped over, drenching all the parchment in its path. And damn, the ink has stained the sleeve of her favorite robe too.

With effort, she raises her head to look towards the noise that's roused her – two owls pecking insistently at the window.

Grumbling, she rises to let them in and then fumbles around in her drawers for some owl treats.

Groggily, she unrolls the first piece of parchment. It's from Marcus Flint,

_Pansy,_

_I've moved on. Please don't send me any more drunken owls. You'll get me in trouble with Katie._

_\- Marcus_

Her head hurts too much for her to roll her eyes properly. Figures. Flinty always _did_ have an uncanny obsession with Katie Bell.

Ugh, and apparently, she'd regressed to her old M.O. of booty-owling him. Well, that's one bullet dodged.

With some trepidation, she unrolls the next scroll, her heart sinking at the familiar scrawl.

_Great! I'll see you Friday at noon then._

_\- King Weasley_

As calmly as she can, she searches her study for other owls to try to piece together the nature of this meeting. The only thing she manages to find are the pieces of parchment drenched in ink on her desk.

"Fuck," she says aloud.

* * *

She catches herself putting more care into dressing for work on Friday morning. She eventually settles on a form-fitting peach-colored dress, knowing the pink-ish hue will bring out the green of her eyes.

At 11:55 am, she takes a small sip of calming drought. So, what if she has no idea what she'd drunkenly owled Weasley? What's the worst that could happen? That he'd try to fuck her at work? …That he wouldn't try?

To her surprise, he shows up in a perfectly tailored suit. She doesn't think she's ever seen Weasley in proper dress shoes until now. He looks… amazing. She can already feel an ache swelling between her legs.

As usual, the bright smile he greets her with reminds her of how dark her insides are compared to his.

He doesn't move to hug or kiss her.

She stretches her lips upwards the best she can. "Come in."

She walks slowly to her desk, feeling his eyes on her ass, waiting – maybe – for him to put his hands on her body. He doesn't.

"Sorry for owling you so late on Saturday," he begins nervously.

Pansy blinks and lets out a small sigh of relief. So _he_ had owled _her._

"That's alright. I was still up."

He grins at her. "I'm glad you had time to meet me this week. I really wanted to know what you think."

"Right."

"Well, here it is then."

He pulls a small projector lens out of his pocket. With a tap of his wand, the device flashes to life, beaming an image of what looks to be the title page of a presentation onto Pansy's office wall. It reads, "Algorithm-chained charms for the localization of neuromantic maladies."

She blinks and her jaw drops a little. He'd actually listened when she described her work, and what's more, he's gone and done something for it.

"Well, go on," she says, sitting back and crossing her legs.

"Alright," he swallows and clicks to the next slide.

As he starts, all remnants of the bumbling Ron Weasley from her childhood fades. The man before her is confident and charismatic, all broad shoulders and white teeth and holy shit, some really brilliant ideas. She listens intently as he describes a series of complex charms designed to pinpoint the exact neuromantic connections altered in a cursed individual. The biology is a little off, but it's nothing Pansy can't work with.

After he waves away the last slide, he looks at her expectantly.

Suddenly, her throat feels a little funny and there's pressure behind the bridge of her nose. Fuck, don't _cry_ , she chides herself. But it's hard not to feel emotional, when Ronald Weasley, of all people, has come into her office and dropped a potential breakthrough into her lap.

"That was… brilliant," she says, careful to keep voice steady.

He breaks into a wide smile. "Since our dinner in London, I haven't been able to get this idea out of my head. I begged off work and have been doing this since last Monday…Given that I've only had about a week and a half, it's all a bit rough and obviously my knowledge of neuromancy is crap, but I think we could really get this to work."

"We?"

"I'll need your help obviously, with the healer's side of it. My expertise is in piecing together charms, but I'll need all the data you've collected on how curses mess with neuromantic connections to form the charms' chain structure."

"Right." She frowns. "Weasley, I think that this is all absolutely worth pursuing, but you should know that Mungo's board has officially refused to fund any of my proposals, so I… I won't be able to partner with you on this."

"This could be huge," he says again, insistently. "Like millions of galleons huge. Can't you just fund the pilot yourself? I talked to Neville already. He thinks if we get a working demo, we could potentially get support from the board. I mean I haven't run the numbers yet, but with a demo, I'd bet you'd make back any initial money you put in folds from outside investors. Think about it, Pansy. We could get this to work in _any_ part of the body."

She looks down at her perfectly manicured nails, a hollowness forming in her stomach. Of course, he doesn't actually care her cause. He cares about her galleons.

"The sort of pilot project you're talking about… it would be at least fifty, maybe even a hundred thousand."

He nods. "Maybe more."

"Right," she says again, collecting herself. Fuck it, she thinks. If it works, it'll be worth it. "Alright, Weasley, let's give it a try."

She extends her hand and he shakes it. Instead of letting go, he pulls her up out of her chair. She falls into his chest, breathing in the now familiar smell of him.

She knows she should pull away and establish some boundaries. They'll be colleagues after all, partners in what might amount to be the most significant accomplishment in her life. All the more reason to remain _professional_. But Pansy already knows she's going to be stupid about this.

"Care to get started this weekend?" he asks. "Or maybe even tonight?"

He's running his hands over her arse now and she can feel him growing hard against her belly. She's forced to look up at him from this angle, taking in the blue of his gaze, the freckles scattered across his nose and cheeks, the infuriating smirk on his lips.

"Unless you think my sexiness will be too distracting…"

She rolls her eyes. "Owl me a list of everything you think we'll need. I'll have the house elves get it all ready by tomorrow morning."

"Ooh, Healer Parkinson, I like it when you're bossy."

She snorts at this. "History says that you really don't, Weasley." She pushes him away and straightens her skirt. "Now go, so I can do some prep for tomorrow. Think you can come by around eleven in the morning? I'll leave the floo open for you."

With some reluctance, he steps away. She can see the clear outline of dick against his leg. She squeezes her knees together, as she imagines herself sitting back on her desk and spreading her legs around him. Fuck, what is _wrong_ with her?

"Yeah," he says, as unsettled and restless as she feels. "Yeah, that sounds good."

"Great. I'll have the house elves set up some tea around then."

"Yeah. Great."

"Weasley?"

"Yeah."

"You can leave now."

"Right-o."

* * *

She goes to bed early that night, even though she can't sleep.

She thinks about her mother's last years – the once elegant woman existing as nothing but a jumble of disjointed thoughts housed in a decaying body. And her father, a pompous arse who was brutal and cruel and eventually dead at Voldemort's whim. But when all was said and done, they had protected her innocence with their lives, which was more than poor Draco got.

She thinks about how she has her mother's vanity and her father's pride and what things would be like had Voldemort never found power a second time. She'd probably be married to some pureblood arsehole, blithely growing into the trophy wife mold her parents had cast for her.

She thinks about how much her parents had ridiculed the penniless, muggle-loving Weasley family. How she had turned her nose up at Ron Weasley and his siblings all those years ago in school and his shame, which had hardened into spite. And how fucked up it is that she had the best orgasms of her life with him in spite of it, maybe even because of it.

She wonders if it's pathetic that she doesn't really mind if he's using her for money, or for some twisted revenge fuck, or whatever all this is between then. She wants more of him. And in his own way, Ron Weasley is giving her everything she's asked of him. And there's nothing paltry or insubstantial about it.

She thinks about how open and honest Millie and Daphne are about love, and how much it hurts them.

She thinks about how happy she had been as a girl, coddled and dolled up and cooed over. She misses her mother.

All these years of collecting data and theorizing and studying… and finally something good may come from it.

She thinks about how intertwined their lives will be if it all works out.

It scares her.

It thrills her.

* * *

**END OF CHAPTER 6**

**AN: Hello lovelies! Here lies the first chapter without loads and loads of smut. Don't worry if that was your favorite part - there's lots more to come in future chapters ;)** ****I originally thought the whole story would be about 10 chapters. I think now, it will be closer to 12-14, since I haven't been able to fit as much in each chapter as I thought.  
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**Sorry for the longgg pause between updates. Life got rather busy in the last month (with good things), including a visit to London and watching the Cursed Child play. Have any of you seen it? I haven't talked to anyone in fandom about it, and would be interested in knowing what you thought. I started a new job when I came home, which I love, but it has 80-120 hour work weeks. Finding time to write has been quite impossible. Unfortunately, this means future updates will be less regular as well... Sorry!**

****Many special thanks to readers who left kudos and/or reviewed. I love you guys! :D I want you to know that your insights and encouragements really push me to keep writing. If you have time, please leave a little comment! I really want to know how you feel about the character development and progressions in the story.  
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**xoxo,**

**bourbonrain**


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